


Leash

by Samsara (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Culture, Alien Mythology/Religion, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Character Death, Daddy Issues, Dubious Consent, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Gen, Grapecest, Heartbreak, Karkat dies, M/M, Makaracest, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Sadstuck, Self-cest, Slight Mindcontrol, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Why would you do this, troll incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-11 05:56:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 40,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Samsara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of the worst things about being a subjugglator is having a moirail so low on the spectrum, he technically doesn't exist. You know what's worse? When your moirail passes away, and the only thing to console you is the liquid black relationship you have with the troll you call your ancestor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

You knew it would happen one day. You had known since you were young that you would probably be one of the last ones of your friends to survive. At this rate, you, and the now-Empress were the only two of your original group of friends to survive. But even so, she was far too busy being wrapped in her position of power to aid you the way you needed to be aided. It’d be a long time, and yet, as time passed, the pain never ever seemed to go away. But you suppose that’s just how it is with a moiraillegiance as strong as yours. It’s only supposed to be expected when you outlive the mutant. It’s hard being a highblood, and no one understands.

You remember the day when you knew it was going to happen soon. You remember how your best friend of ten sweeps looked at you one day. There were lines of anger in his face, as there always had been. Even though you were so sure that you were still as youthful as ever, you realized when your moirail smiled at you, that he was not. Maybe all the sweeps of anger had caught up with him. But as he smiled, you saw how hard it was for him to make it seem genuine. He knew how close he was to the end of his life. And you knew it too. All you could do was wrap your arms around him and hold him close, and tell him how much you cared about him, and how not once, no matter how much ridicule you received, you never once regretted your quadrant with him.

You knew it was time when he could barely hold on to you as you and he sank into a feelings jam for the last time.

Your ancestor, as well as his companions never liked the idea of your bond with him. They thought it was a horrible example of your position as a highblood. But you had to be completely honest with them about your best friend. You didn’t care if he was a mutant. You didn’t care if he was the bottom rung. You didn’t care that you a motherfucking subjugglator, and he was a menace to be abhorred without a single lick of sympathy. Begrudgingly, you were allowed your moiraillegiance. You were allowed provided it never interfere with your work. You swore that as long as your best friend would be safe, it never would.

You remember how you mourned. You remember how you woke up in a pile (one much more suited to your age, not your silly nature from grubhood) your moirail close against your body, arms holding him tight. You remember how you leaned in to nuzzle against his cheek, only to discover chilly flesh, a smile on his face, and a lack of wisps of breath from his lips. Your moirail was gone. You remember screaming. You remember holding his body as tight as you could, and screaming in a way that alerted the entire confines of your highblooded coven to your anguish. You knew it would happen. You knew it would happen one day, but you never prepared yourself for it. You remember screaming until there was nothing left to come out. Nothing left to express yourself. Nothing left to expel. No sound for screams, no tears for sorrow, no breath for speech.

Your subjugglator brethren try and take his body from you. But not on your life. You won’t let them turn him into a joke. You know why they want him. They want to drain whatever blood is left and paint. They want him to be their tool for mirth. But you won’t allow it. You are the only person your moirail truly trusted with his blood color. You were the only one who, at the end of the day, he would even joke about his mutation. No, his blood was not for humor. His blood was a symbol of your closeness to him. No one would touch his body, just you. So you respect his passing, it’s normally unheard of. But no one questions it. The passing of a moirail is always hard. The passing of a moirail is always something that is grieved over in silence. In secret. So no one tries to intervene when you respect his body. When you very carefully make incisions in his veins to extract whatever blood is left.

Yes, you will make paint of it, but not to celebrate the messiahs. That is the plan of your brethren. You will celebrate something much more important. The paleness of moiraillegiance that you know is far too sacred to be destroyed.

Your ancestor thinks you’ve lost it. He thinks you’ve ignored your hatchright by respecting a body this way. What of culling? Of murder? Of the joy of seeing the splatter of colors being sprayed in honor of your capricious gods? You know his ideas of moiraillegiance are fuzzy at best, so you don’t try to tell him off. He thinks you’re insane (ha, what a joke, you think). But you don’t mind.

You harness the blood of your moirail and keep it close. You never regret it. You never regret what you do with his body. You put him to rest. You heard about how long ago, back sweeps and sweeps, the dead were respected. You don’t leave his body to just rot away. It’s not what he would have wanted. In the end, he only wanted acceptance.

You burn his body. You tell yourself that the flames are all his hatred and anger, all bursting and rushing away as he finally could be calm, and peaceful. You let them consume not only his hate and rage, but yours as well.

You scream again. And you damn well don’t care what the world thinks of you for it.

Highblood or not, losing a moirail will always break you down.

You knew from this day on, you would have to become a different person. Not so much a person who had lost their moirail, but a person without balance. Your moirail kept you calm. You may have had a position that required you to be anything but calm, but you had learned to manage the moments of zen with your moirail, with the moments where you had to be of a berserk mindset instead. Without him, you had no reason to ease your mind.

The night after his passing, you cull to your hearts content. Not just any culling, but culling those who you know would have harmed your moirail. Not highbloods, exactly. But those who looked upon the order of the spectrum as something even above the gods themselves. You make them cower. You make your ancestor exceptionally proud when he sees the creative methods in which you had taken lives. If only he knew why you killed these fools.

You lock yourself away, prepared to isolate yourself for a while. All you want to do is use your moirail's remaining blood and create a mural in his memory. You want to create a montage of moments celebrating the bond the both of you had. Sure, he was crass and harsh most of the time, but that was the beauty of your relationship. Towards him, and towards those whom you and he were both close with, you were capable of being friendly and of a calmer mindset. But when it came to work or political matters, you were a beast. A wild animal, only controlled by its handler, which in this case was one of two people: your moirail or your ancestor.

It was almost like a competition.

So when your moirail passed and your ancestor started to dictate your life, you started to realize that maybe for him...it was a competition, and he saw your moirail as a threat. When your ancestor came to you a few nights later, pitching the idea of you joining him for a murder romp through what he considered to be a filth-infested slum (what you considered to be a small town of brown bloods). And although you said no, he tugged at you as if holding you on an invisible leash. He even eggs you on, suggesting that if your moirail had made the offer instead, that you would have joined it.

It sets you off. You yell at the older troll. You scream, tell him that he doesn't know your moirail. That you and he would never do anything like that. You did your job when you were asked. You would decline activities with your moirail if you didn't like them. It was a matter of what you were and were not comfortable with. So when your ancestor implies that he can control you the same way your moirail controlled you, you find yourself furious. 

You pull out the steel bats with the spikes that you had switched to using once you became a subjugglator. You hold them up, prepared to strike down your ancestor. It occurs to you that you might have the faintest of black feelings for him.

Is that even something acceptable?

After all, everything does boil down to an incestuous slurry already, so what does it matter?

There's more than one instance of your ancestor taking advantage of that. Both your resistance to his (what you suspect are fake) advances for moiraillegiance, as well as your slight interest in kismesisitude causes your ancestor to get you up against walls from time to time. To push you up close enough to let his large hands trail their way over you, to manage to use one finger (nearly the thickness of your forearm) to tease at the plates over your bulge, trying to lure you out of your clothes. You almost let him.

You have figured it out by now that there is a very definite difference between mutual understanding, and threats. You and your moirail were always tied with the understanding aspect. The threats you received from your moirail your entire life were half-hearted, playful ones. They never truly held any real merit. But what you experience with your ancestor is truly that of a threat. He wants to control you now that your moirail is no longer here to keep your mind at ease.

You insist on being given your time to mourn. Maybe one day, far down the line in the future, when you've become too hardened by the horros you face every day, you will allow your ancestor to influence you. But this is not the time. In the future, you've already determined that moiraillegiance with anyone but the one you lost, is a futile effort. So few castes will outlive you, and in the end, you will decide it isn't worth it.

You're given some time, but not nearly enough. Within a sweep of your moirail's passing, your ancestor has pushed you again. Many a time, he approached you, large hand stroking your shoulder, with this false sense of comfort emitting from him, trying to influence you. Not a single chucklevoodoo would come slithering from your pan, or his, but his presence was enough of an impact that things began to stir within you.

You loved your moirail as much as it was trollishly possible for a troll to love their moirail without it becoming full blown flushed romance. When he lived and stood by your side, unafraid of the absolutely unhinged part to your personality, you admired him for his strength and his inability to turn away from you, no matter how awful things would get.

A sweep of mourning and trying to be strong will take its toll on anyone. And eventually, you need to just cut loose. Your ancestor is more than willing to assist. While caring in nature it might sound, this is hardly the case. Yes, of course. It would all make sense to your ancestor--obviously, the best course of action is to show you how much stress and frustration, as well as sadness, can be relieved just by severing a few heads.

And it works. It works in ways you never expected it to. Your weapons become covered in the blood colors of all trolls. You grin happily as their fluids splatter not only on the bats and clubs of your choosing, but your clothing and face as well. You've not enjoyed laughing so much since your moirail passed. The endorphins, the rush, all of it. It eases your mind. It gives you something new to focus on. An explosion of energy that you had forgotten existed.

And something your ancestor gladly takes advantage of.

You start to laugh once your swarm of trolls has vanished. Vanished being defined as completely and utterly destroyed and culled in the most extreme and outlandish ways possible. You just start laughing, grinning in ways you forgot you were even capable of. When you look over the desecrated remains of a certain olive blood, you get a different kind of rush. Your hands drop your bat, letting it fall into the grass beside you as you lower yourself to your knees. Not only are you laughing, you are making quick work of something you need to relieve. You're tugging quickly at the top of your pants, yanking them down so your bulge can breathe freely now. Somewhere in the middle of the festivities known as culling, you slipped free from your bulge plating and began to curl upon yourself.

You don't bother to remove your gloves and gauntlets. All you genuinely want to do is tug at your bulge until it starts to secrete genetic fluid. You want to get off. You feel it's necessary. You don’t even notice when your ancestor comes up behind you as you try and keep your body pressed against that of a now abandoned building, fingers curled around the base of the coiling, indigo mess of flesh and slickness. You pay no attention as your ancestor pushes you against the wall, growling lowly and directly into your audio receptors. His tongue is out and it’s already tracing the shell of cartilage. You hardly pay attention as he speaks, something about asking if you’re ready.

You don’t know what he means by ready, but his hands are at your front, the pad of his index finger running over the slight ridges on the underside of your bulge. It’s an agonizingly slowly wonderful sensation as he reaches the tip of flesh, allowing you to curl around his finger and tug, drawing him in closer. You goan and let him get up behind you, his own trousers lowering and something thick and coated in slippery fluid, wriggling between your legs, igniting flesh-based friction between his body and yours.

He says something again as his entire mouth forms around your ear, his breath becoming the only thing you can hear. You’re so lost in his breath, in your rush of adrenaline, in your desperate need to add your own luscious indigo to the rainbow of stains on your hands and face. You hardly notice that your ancestor as started to push his way into you.

It’s like you’ve been drugged on the sheer force of energy that comes from slaughtering dozens of people. If this is the kind of rush and dizziness you’ll experience without the pressure of a moirail forbidding you, you never want it to stop. You choke suddenly and your hands are clawing into the wall you’ve been pushed against. Somewhere in your dizziness your ancestor has lifted you slightly. Just slightly enough to elevate you and allow his bulge (that monster of a length) push its way inside of you.

Sure, you might have just screamed, and choked, feeling as if he’s buried so deep inside of you that he’s going to burst from your throat--but you think you like it.

No, you actually do. You really do. You really like how he starts growling, hissing, calling you his little spade. His little brat of a spade, how you never listened to him, and how without your moirail, you belong to him. You’ll do as he says, and that’s all you need to no. You are not to question him, you are not to find a new moirail to tame you, and you are to be his protegee.

You’re just high enough on bloodlust to accept this.

Just high enough on energy.

Just aroused enough, that when you let loose and your material drips into the pail your ancestor has placed between your legs, you decide that maybe...your moirail had been holding you back all these sweeps.

And even if he was holding you back.

You’ll always cherish those sweeps. But now, it was time to move on.


	2. Chapter 2

You have been living this life for as long as you can remember. You can’t recall a time when you weren’t being influenced by the coldblooded (pun not intended) lives of the subjugglators. You were used to your ancestor returning to the collective hive covered in all the hues of the spectrum. You were used to him grabbing you by the horn and dragging him to his personal respite block to ease the residual lust from his nights kill. It was commonplace. Several ancestors and their descendants lived in one single hive together. It was temporary, as all of you would be shipped off for planetary occupation soon enough.

You were accustomed to your ancestor stripping you and talking you into pailing with him, despite your lack of a quadrant. But this sort of thing was relatively customary. Most of the other indigo bloods that you knew were used to their ancestors doing this. It was essentially an unwritten law, or at least some strange way of asserting dominance.

 

 

From wigglerhood, you knew your ancestor had taken a shine to you. You remember him holding you up as a grub, and rubbing some of his harlequin paint off his face and rubbing it on your cheeks instead. It was like he was claiming you as his own. You remember the little bright red grub being held by a much older, weary, but smiling man, looking your way with disapproval. You had played in the grub pen with this little red bean of a troll, and even though your only speech was that of a few skreeing noises you happily waved at your friend as he was held by another troll. Your head was far too thick with innocence to notice how your ancestor and your one-day moirail’s ancestor were staring daggers at one another. You would become too enthralled in your chittering with your friend to notice that the adults were speaking in heated, frustrated tones. Apparently they could see your moiraillegiance long before you would ever establish it. Looking back on it, you never understood why your ancestor had allowed you to see the little mutant so often. It started to make some sense.

 

 

You stood in a nearby river, trying desperately to wash the blood stains from your clothing. You hear your ancestor laughing at you, despite your panic. He insists that coming back to the hive covered in the blood of mirth-forsakers is considered a good thing, and that you’re being childish. You need to leave the stains on the clothes, show the others of your caste (all shades somewhat lower than yourself) that you mean business. But it’s not so much the blood that terrifies you. It’s the slimy combination of violet that has collected on your shirt and your pants, yourself being one of the contributors, your ancestor the other. He laughs at you as you snarl at him, your makeup dripping a bit thanks to getting slick with water and sweat.

You pailed with him not even an hour ago. You had never properly pailed with him before. You usually had been there as an item for him to get his lustful desires rubbed out. But this time, he had placed a pail beneath the both of you, collecting the fluid from the both of you. You had never had the intention to actually fill any pails with him, but he was so interested in you. Who were you to argue?

You’re ignoring him. You’re trying to keep yourself quiet as you try and scrub the remaining violet from your shirt. You don’t need to get it all, some of it is dribbled on the Capricorn sign at the bottom, so it blends in. It’s just removing it from the black that you realize is going to be difficult.  
You realize he’s calling you and you turn to face him. He tells you there’s still a smear of the indigo material on your face that, in your panic, neglected to notice.

 

 

You were brought into the Subjugglator’s hive when you were about eight sweeps. You had often visited it when you were younger, but like all trolls, you were required to live in a hive you built yourself with a lusus who would be in charge of caring for you. At least primarily. You were a special case. Your lusus was neglectful, and your ancestor was informed of this early on, and he was not going to allow you to be stunted. He was not going to allow you to make a mockery of your caste. So, unlike the other trolls of your color, you knew your ancestor better than the rest of them. So when you were brought into the collective hive, and thrown into immediate battle, you got your ass saved more than once.

The goal when you first arrived was to eliminate the indigos who were too weak or closed minded to manage to fight for their lives. Sure, you were plenty capable of fighting, but you didn’t want to. Your moirail thought it was crazy that you had to fight for your life and try and kill your own blood-kind. But you thought, hey, when in Rome? You defended yourself to the best of your ability when you were told to fight. But when it came to being instructed to kill instead? Your ancestor had to step in and keep you from being culled. More than once.

It had been a simple process after you had been saved and the remainder of your caste looked at you as if you were unworthy of life. You were fitted for uniforms, striped vests, long sleeved shirts, striped gloves, and pants with violet rings covering it. Simple, comfortable, easy to move around in. Simple to kill in.

Your ancestor didn’t want to put up with your immature bullshit. He made it clear he would only save you in the beginning. He would only see to it that you would get yourself through the first sweep. You were the only descendent he had left, and he was getting too old to pail (so he thought) and he didn’t expect to make wigglers again any time soon. You, as far as he was concerned, were his responsibility. He makes it clear that after this first sweep, if you resisted killing or fighting, you’d be put to death. It would take at least that first sweep for reality (and withdrawal) to sober you up.

 

 

And here you are. Moirailless, managing on your own, trying to figure out what your ancestor wants with you now. He saw to it that you would live long enough to become an official subjugglator. He saw to it that you would learn how to kill (which you only did upon necessity). He saw to it that you would be obedient. Obedience was something you’d grown comfortable in being, at least when it came to your moirail. But now that his leash had been cut and your ancestor was holding the new one, life had a whole new book of rules for you to adhere to. Most of which you weren’t too fond of.

So when you returned to the collective hive, you tried to slide away, go into the quarters of you and your ancestor. You need to throw off the teasing noises and looks from the other indigo blooded trolls. Within the cult of the mirthful messiahs, there are nine branches, known as Joys. Sort of like virtues, although only a few can be considered virtuous. Imperium, Horror, Theatrics, Pleasure, Revelry, Madness, Sacrifice, Dismay and Laughter. The nine ancestors within the hive all represented branches of this, your ancestor being the one of Madness. It’s a genetic thing, and you can see how all the Joys are clear within your fellow hivemates personalities. You and your ancestor are constantly teetering between stability and total mental collapse. One of the girls you’ve seen wandering the halls is constantly playing pranks and laughing when others are soft spoken. One of the boys returns every night covered in blood of even the highest castes, grinning like a fool. 

Your ancestor goes on ahead of you when you return and the descendent of horror slinks up behind you, looping an arm over your shoulder, grinning, with razor like teeth sticking out from behind his lips. You swear he should be a seadweller. He looks like an anglerfish and his eyes glow like one. His hair’s almost totally in his face and you can feel his chucklevoodoos reaching out and tickling you. Had you been any lower in your caste, you would have been a little more unnerved, if you hadn’t just slaughtered a couple dozen trolls. He leans up against you, noticing some of the blood smudging your makeup, laughing in a way that makes his naturally high chucklevoodoo levels flare up.

“Smeeells like yooou had yooourself a liiittle episode.” He whispers, inhaling deeply to take in the dark scent of your carnal nature. “Cooould smell it on the hiiigh master toooooo.” He adds, another deep inhale as he wipes off a little bit of the olive blood from your face. “Noooo one heard noooo screaming.” The way he drags out his vowels always made you uneasy, and you realize then that he is doing it entirely on purpose right now. “Musta made them aaaaaall compliant. Don’t you maaaadness brothers do thaaat?” You’re now trying to shake your shoulder free from him. “Surprised that your…moooooirail never got brooooken~” You hear the little giggle in his voice, and you know he’s egging you on now. Everyone in the collective hive knew of your mutant moirail. “Was it yooooour madness that fiiiiiinally killed him?” Another laugh. “Ooooor did he just get boooored of you and killed over from boooooooredom?” He starts to pull back, and you feel the madness that the other troll is egging on, spring to life.

There’s a difference between chucklevoodoos and necrowhispers. Chucklevoodoos channel fear and turn that into energy. Necrowhispers tug at a persons own personal demons and mental handicaps and turn that into energy. And when two collide, they become something clever called nightmare hexes. When nightmare hexes occur, everyone feels it. Highbloods, lowbloods, even the dead if they could feel. So when you look at your fellow indigo, your necrowhispers start to crackle to life and you already can feel the pressure of the two energies pressing against one another. It’s not for very long, but it’s long enough that people start creeping from their respective blocks to see what the commotion is about. A commotion that is totally silent, save for the low growling from your throat. You had thought you made it clear to this other troll to back off and leave you alone, but no. That motherfucker had to stay on you.

Your ancestor grabs you by the shoulder and shoves you down the hallway to your own blocks. He had thought you would behave after you and he had gone on your little murder spree. Once you’re dragged away he gets you up against the wall, and snarls, his heavy, matted hair blocking your faces from touching. You can smell his breath—he ate one of the bodies you killed. You can tell.—and you try and hold your breath as his hands hold you still against the wall.

He asks where you get off. Where you get off thinking you can let chucklevoodoos and necrowhispers just mingle like that. You don’t speak. You hear him say something derogatory about you. It goes over your head and he tugs you away from the wall.

“It is that motherfucking moirail of yours.” He hisses as he pulls you by the arm, making it difficult for you to even walk and keep up with him. “Made you unstable MADE YOU A BROKEN MESS.” You don’t retort that. You want to but if you’ve learned anything here so far, it’s not to talk back to your ancestor, no matter how much you want to. “He made you think that you could do anything. And not have to face consequences. Little pissant.”

You don’t speak as your ancestor brings you into his respite block at the end of the hall. You’ve learned that unless you turn yourself into a direct copy of him, you will never hear the end of it. The door closes behind you, and you hear your ancestor speak about how misbehaved and ungrateful you are. You shrug it off. As long as he doesn’t say anything else about your passed moirail. Your ancestor turns to you and he’s already pulling your vest and gloves off, and you’re trying to move in just the right way to make the removing of clothes become a little easier. You had a feeling this would happen after he pailed you earlier. Usually when he was incredibly happy, or incredibly upset, this happened. You stopped caring that it happened in the first place, a long time ago.

He has you shirtless and he’s already removing your shoes and pants, leaving you almost entirely naked. Pailing with him has become routine now. You don’t really notice how his tongue is running up from your nook, over your steadily unsheathed bulge, over your stomach and chest, towards your neck and face. You hardly pay attention to your mouth catching his, two tongues twisting together, light purple saliva dripping from both of your lips, dribbling on to your chest. He’s pulled you closer, pulling you to a large couch in the room. You’re tugged on to his lap, he’s inside you in a matter of seconds. You only manage a small grunting sound. He’s been inside you so many times that it doesn’t feel the same. It’s not fun anymore.

What was fun, was when you and your moirail broke the rules. 

 

You were getting close to eight sweeps when you and your moirail were chilling together. You’d indulged on a little more sopor slime than necessary, and you’d managed to convince you that just a tiny little taste of it wouldn’t kill him. Just enough to give him that fuzzy, heavy headed euphoria that you enjoyed so much. He was cute on sopor. He actually was returning each of your cuddles and embraces, and even had gone as far as demonstrating some affection himself, with playful little cheek kisses and nuzzling. It was comfortable, and you realized that this time together was probably the best of all the times you shared. Both of you had lost just enough inhibitions to be totally honest with one another, and totally opened.

So when you mentioned thinking that your moirail was pretty attractive, he took it as more than a compliment. He wiped some of your makeup from your face. Not a ton, but just a little bit around your lips. He commented that when you took the grease paint from your skin, you had a nice face too. It’s a nice little exchange of compliments, and you couldn’t help but put your hand on his face and rub lightly before he makes a move. He kisses you. It’s a quick, childish gesture that leads to him pulling back, with a self-depreciating comment. He calls himself stupid. Ugly. You tell him to shut his mouth because you’ve got yourself a motherfucking gorgeous best friend.

He likes hearing you say that and he asks a question that you’re pretty sure he’s expecting to hear a “no” to. He asks if you and he could have yourself a bit of sloppy makeouts. You answer quickly. It’s a yes. It’s a hell motherfucking yes. You’ve always found your best bro to be pretty attractive, and—well naturally you don’t remember much more. Just the feeling of two tongues rubbing together, two bodies pretty a little closer than they should be. You remember your moirail breaking apart, and in a dizzy haze, asking if it’s okay for moirails to do this.

You don’t have a problem with it. You’re moirails. If you both want it, no harm done. It’s not like either of you had a matesprit or a kismesis at the moment to worry about. You figure that there’s no problem with two pale-bros twisting the old bulge together. What bad could come from it?

As far as you were concerned, nothing bad did come from it.

 

Your ancestor finishes shortly after you do, and there’s another pail collecting material. You’re not sure why he’s somehow become so invested in collecting your material. He never had been before, and now, that’s all he seems to want to do when he gets you undressed. Once the deed is done, the pail is carried away, leaving you to retrieve your scattered clothing. You ask him what the deal is. He just looks at you, his lips pulled into a smile.

He tells you that it’s about time you learned some lessons.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Underage  
> Also, headcanoning that there's no actual age of consent in Alternia due to the concept of pailing being absolutely necessary, so there would be no need to discourage sexual relations.

You were seven when your ancestor decided to take you for the first time.

You had still been living with your lusus. Or rather, you had still been living in the hive your lusus had left you to maintain while he went about with his own business and left you to your own devices. Your ancestor arrived on one of his regular checkups on you, wanting to see what sort of life you lived outside of his watchful presence. You had made a point of busting every nerve in your ass to clean the place up of anything that he might not approve of. Usually, when you were strung out on baked sopor, you cared little about what stood out. But when it came to an ancestor who was responsible for dictating your entire future, and more importantly whether you lived or died, you needed to keep up appearances.

You had scoured your hive, tossing out empty pie tins, restocking the slime of your recuperacoon, making sure anything that would show off any indication of being too relaxed for your ancestors liking was gone, hidden away or burned. It hurt to part with some things, but all good things must come to pass, after all.

When your ancestor arrived he had to get on his hands and knees just to come into the building. He was unamused by your lack of consideration for your height, for one day you’d become the same size as he was (a beast of a man, even among trolls). You told him you’d refurnish it all once you got a little bigger, but you were pretty sure your doorways would manage for a little while longer. But he continued to point out your faults, as the only way he could comfortably fit anywhere without damaging your hive would be to sit upon the floor, the tips of his horns just inches away from scraping along the ceiling.

You don’t know how to react to his disgruntled noises that indicate his lack of impression with your hive, so what you do is sit on the floor in front of him. He looks you over, although he doesn’t seem to be moving a muscle. You feel his eyes looking over you, taking in every little imperfection. He sniffs, inhaling deeply. There’s a combination of a grimace and an amused sort of smirk on his face. You try to match the expression, but you come across as appearing to be more nervous than cheerful to have the larger troll as your visitor.

“You bake sopor.” he said to you, his tone low, harsh--intimidating. You feel violet blood drain from your face, and the light in the room shrinking as your pupils become mere pinholes as you look at the troll. The attempt of a smile has totally vanished, and you’re left looking mildly terrified, as your bare hands dig into the floor, scraping for all its worth to keep from letting your tongue run away with you as you try and explain yourself. “The stench is everywhere, kid. If you were trying to hide your use, you did a piss poor motherfucking job of it.”

He’s started to emit chucklevoodoos. You feel them stinging you at your very core, and you’re trying to think of excuses. Suddenly, you have a slight idea of what chucklevoodoos are for. They strike you in a sort of way that makes it difficult to make up anything. At least how you’re witnessing it. He’s using them on you to put you on the spot, make you tell the truth as quickly as possible so you don’t try and tell him stories. You can feel the pins and needles of fear striking your blood pusher a thousand times or more a second. Each little prickle becomes more and more irritating. The first second or two you could manage but the longer you hesitate, the more painful it becomes.

This is how he got you to spill about your sopor addiction.

“Bein’ all using sopor to keep my head all calm and shit. S’only thing that makes me feel all kinds of right and comfortable, man! I know I ain’t s’posed to, but c’mon man, I ain’t had no lusus to not tell me otherwise! And by the time I all had someone to be up and screamin’ at me to stop it was being too late, and I gotta keep with the usin’ or I become someone I ain’t sure of. Someone who not all wants nothing more than to be watchin’ as other brothers give blood to spill for him!”

You’ve scuttled back in your seated position, pressed your back up against the wall, immediately showing just how vulnerable you are. He’s scared you into this position and he knows he’s done that, because he’s gotten on to his hands and knees, no longer allowing his horns to scrape the ceiling. He’s now approached you, teeth visible in a large, toothy grin as he looks you over. He shifts all his weight on to one hand and he reaches to you with the other, his thumb and index finger large enough that he can easily pinch your chin so you gaze up at him. You inhale deeply, trying to make yourself seem larger. Your ancestor might be large, but not as big as you know he’s making himself off to be. You know you can try and pull the same strings and make yourself seem to be a giant as well. Not as giant, necessarily, but you can attempt to show that you’re not scared. Even though you know you are, and you know your ancestor can feel it.

“Kid, you be acting like I’m going to indulge in a little mirth and cull your shameless little ass for drowning yourself in slime.” he growls, the tone nearly playful. He’s still pinching your chin, his nails digging into your cheeks. He grows them long and files them into claws so you know he’s doing it on purpose now. The little twinges of pain you’re feeling as he holds your face are just his way of telling you that you need to settle down.

The chucklevoodoos die down, but you can still feel the residual echo of them floating through the darkest recesses of your mind, and you nod to your ancestor, curtly enough that you’re being obedient. “Y-You ain’t?” you choke out as he finally releases your chin and goes back to sitting with his legs folded.

“Tell me boy, you ever see a blood thirsty wiggler?” Your head shakes. “Sopor is what we use to keep the murder whispers at bay while you little shits are still growin’. You ever see a child subjugglator, kid?” Your head shakes again. “The lusus of kids of your color is instructed to make sure never to be tellin’ you idiots to stay off the stuff, and is supposed to encourage you to be eating it on your motherfucking own!”

“But my lusus never told me nothin’!”

“Well then good on you for not bein’ as braindead as I thought you were.”

Your ancestor looks you over and takes another sniff of the air, realizing that you are mostly completely lost on this idea. “Kid, you hear me. Sopor is used to keep the nightmares of you young shits at bay, right?” You nod. “Does the same when it’s consumed. Keeps the nightmares of the motherfuckin’ waking world at bay, and by that--” He sighs, and then you realize why he cut the sentence short. “IT MEANS THAT IT KEEPS YOUR MURDER WHIMS FROM SURFACING.”

You jump when he starts to yell, and you find yourself bringing your knees to your chest. So much for trying to come across as being large, instead, you’re going to try and make yourself as small as possible so the large, angry troll can’t see you anymore.

“Tell me,” he’s speaking again and you need to break out of your invisible shell in order to look at him. “You ever run out of it for any reason?” You confirm that you have in the past. “And tell me, do you become irrationally obsessed with your position in the spectrum? Do you feel like you need to start passing motherfucking judgement on just about everyone you lay your eyes on? Do you start to desire their blood on your hands, and their final breaths? And their pleas?”

You recall the one and only time you ever ran out. You recall how you had started to choke one of your friends, a blueblood, despite how he was begging for you to stop. You remember how the back of your head had been egging you on, telling you that your lower blooded friend wanted to be choked and beaten and abused by highbloods when he did something wrong. You remember how even though this tiny flicker of rationale in your head had tried to reason with you. You remember how when rationale won out, how you went for another friend instead. Feisty olive blood who fought back against you tooth and nail, slashed your face open, left you curious as to why you were dripping with blood and not her. You remember how your moirail stopped you.

You come back to reality, head nodding slowly as your ancestor gives you a look, inquiring about whether or not he was correct.

“Puttin’ it all lightly man. It’s like a rage be boilin’ in me that no amount of blood can motherfuckin’ settle.”  
He smiles at you.

“Now imagine if every wiggler your age and color felt those whims all the time? There wouldn’t be enough moirails to go around to keep you all pacified, would there?” He says the word ‘moirail’ with some disgust. He doesn’t believe in moiraillegiance. He thinks moirails are for the weak and the person to compose the phrase was weak themselves.

What you won’t know until much later in life, is that he used to believe in them. But for trolls of your color, and your life expectancy, the loss of a first moirail is always difficult, and many never recover. The loss of a moirail will usually make your color bitter towards the idea. Usually due to a broken heart.

“No, I s’pose not.” you say. You still can’t tell if he wants you to quit or not. “Man, do you need me to all be stopping this now?”

He laughs. It’s a loud, barking like noise, and it’s like you’ve made him genuinely happy. He commends you on a good joke. “Boy you don’t get it, do you?” he laughs. “We keep the young ones on slime for as long as we can. We only take them off when we know their instincts will kick in. Let their natural selves take over.” He smiles at you. “That violence you be feelin’ when you go off it is what you’ll be feelin’ whenever the true calling comes to you. It’s strongest when you get slime in your system and then get yanked free.” You don’t like the look he has on his face, and you feel the ‘voodoos starting up again. “The day the slime stops workin’ its magic is the day you go off for good.”

It would take you until you were eleven to be off slime for good. Your personality would become this strange blend of the relaxed chillness that the sopor slipped you into, and the sociopathic subjugglator that soberness turned you into. As far as your ancestor was concerned (later in life that is), you were an ideal subjugglator. Even if you were a little pissant with an attitude problem. But you figured that attitude came from your moirail and his dislike for your ancestor and the others of your caste.

It was this day that your ancestor visited, that you would be properly viewed as a soon-to-be member of the clan of indigo bloods whom he lived among. You would still have another sweep before you would be brought to live with him. But he figured now was as good a time as any to make sure you knew your place among the brothers and sisters. He requested of you to consume as much of the slime as your little heart desired. He wanted you compliant when he was going to induct you. You baked up a number of pies, four or five of them, and you ate until you were bloated and didn’t want to move. You could feel the somewhat hardened slime sloshing around in your gut as you sat on the ground after its consumption. The entire hive was alive with colors that you had either never recognized, or ones that only existed when you were stoned. Those colors relaxed you. For a moment, you realized that whether or not you were on sopor, or completely sober, color mattered the most to you.

Your ancestor asks you how you feel once you’ve situated yourself on the floor, having attempted to slide into a pile of discarded one-wheel-device tires. You’ve slid out of it and on to the floor, lying with your back on the ground, positioned near your ancestor’s lap. You tell him that you haven’t been able to enjoy the sopor this much in several sweeps. He smiles, pleased to see that. Pleased to be able to that he has managed to hook one of his long fingers under the hem of your shirt, and push it up. You give him a look, you ask him what he’s doing and he silently shushes you as he pushes the article of clothing up towards your underarms. His hand is running smoothing over your stomach and you ask him quietly if this is how you’re inducted.

“Something like that.” he says, requesting that you sit up and remove your shirt for him. Your head is too far gone, and you’re far too content with everything in the world to disagree. You wriggle free from your clothing and go to lie back down on the ground, but his hand is behind you to catch you. He keeps you from the ground, and lifts you up just enough to pull you into his lap instead. Again, you’re far too relaxed to be concerned.

He doesn’t do much to you, but he certainly seems to be implying his intentions. He’s running a few fingers between your legs, but you pass that all up to him not being aware of where they’re at. You’ve got rushes of tingles rapidly flickering through you as his fingers idly trace invisible lines. You know some of it’s from the sopor, but the rest is all surfacing from the gestures from the older troll. You don’t even realize you’re watching what he does as the plates hidden by your pants give way for the ultra-sensitive flesh to push out and push against the folds of fabric that is your underwear. You finally manage to lift your head (it’s so heavy, you’re only now realizing just how heavy your skull is, and you’re amazed you have the strength to even hold it up while you look at your ancestor.) and ask him.

“What the motherfuck are you doin’ man?”

He smiles. He tells you that he already said this is part of your induction to the caste. You ask him if you’re supposed to be feeling this good. You listen to his barking laugh and he merely hooks a finger in your pants, and starts to tug them down. He says that it naturally feels pretty wonderful, but the sopor in your system was heightening it all. It was sending you into a brief euphoria. He asks you a question of your religion, one that you both share. He asks you what you know of the Joys. You tell him you understand the basics, but you wouldn’t know how to go about each of their practices. He tells you that induction to your caste (and your faith) involves indulging the Joy of Pleasure. What he is to do with you will be more than just indulging, but a religious experience.

You figure it can’t be that bad, as he manages to undress you. You’re exposed, just the way he wants you, he shows it by running a finger between your legs, lingering just a little long over your nook, letting some of the violet fluid to trickle on to the pad of his finger before using it as a slight lubricant as he traces it up over your bulge. It’s too busy coiling on itself. You didn’t realized he’d gotten you this excited, but, you keep muttering a small mantra in your head: it’s just the slime making it so nice.

Your ancestor has managed to remove the only part of his clothing that needs to be removed. And he’s not even totally undressed. Just enough so that the one part that matters is visible. He beckons you to touch him, to see how you manage. He’s guiding you along, telling you how to wrap your hands around him, how to make sure you aren’t doing damage to him. To make sure that you’ve got just enough of his material on your palms already to make the naive, delicate touches that you deliver, to be pleasurable ones.

After a few minutes of using hands, he guides you closer and leans you back. He’s begun to rub himself against the damp folds of flesh of your nook. He’s trying to press in, just lightly, just enough to show you he’s in charge. You realize as he pulled you closer, you had tried to get the upper hand by letting yourself coil around him.

With his fingers, he pries your bulge away from his and he pushes a little closer. You panic.

Suddenly you are six sweeps old again, you’re out of sopor. You don’t know what to do. You take it out on everyone around you. You’re trying to pull away from him, but he holds you still as you try not to scream at him. Somewhere in your head you hear a loud knock on the door. You hear the screeching of drones. You realize that you know why you’re in this position. There are drones at your door. You need to give them material. You scream that you’re not ready. That your ancestor isn’t one of your quadrants, that you’re not ready to pail.

He grabs your arms as you sit in his lap, the very tip of his bulge still pressing into you. He whispers quietly. He has not whispered to you once since you’ve met him. “Relax.” he sighs. “There are no drones, boy. You let your own voodoos get the motherfucking best of you. It is you, and it is me right now. There are no others. You will not be pailing. Not yet.”

He does say that once real adulthood reaches you, you certainly will be. And if redness or blackness has not become occupied, he will occupy them for you. He makes it clear that he is trying to ready you. Chances are, he would occupy both of your quadrants come adulthood, very few live longer than you will, and quadrants are best kept in their color the higher up the spectrum.

You ask him if it’s going to hurt.

“Like you will not believe.” he replies as he holds you still, and allows himself to move closer to you, without pushing inside. “But I will keep you comfortable.” He adds as he actually manages to give you a peaceful smile. “As will the sopor.”

He doesn’t move into you just yet. He’s actually waiting for total consent from you, which surprises you. There are no voodoos being emitted to make you say yes to him. And he makes it very clear he will gladly walk away from all of this, by pulling the tip of the appendage that has crept into you, out from your nook. A gesture of good faith, it seems. He looks you over, watching for your acceptance or refusal.

“You won’t just up and leave me to die, will you?” you ask him as he laughs at your nervous question.

“You are of my caste, not a criminal. Why would I leave you to motherfucking die?” You manage a slight smile, and then give him a nod.

“Yeah, guess I gotta be all ready to be doin’ this one day, don’t I?”

He pats your cheek, lips pulled into a smirk. “Atta boy.” he says as he puts the hand behind your back and pulls you closer to him.

You hang on to him, waiting for it. Waiting for the pain.

But when it comes, it’s not what you expect. It’s not a thrust, but more of a slow, gradually tightening slithering. The first inch or so seems like nothing. The tip of his bulge is thin and doesn’t seem to cause anything to happen. But as he slides deeper, you begin to feel a fullness that only comes from something that’s a little too large, being put into something a little too small. And you realize, when you think he’s in, that he’s only begun. He’s only begun to close you off, and get lost in the ridges of flesh inside of you. It’s when he gets to the point where you don’t even know if you’re even giving off enough of the preliminary fluid to keep him in, that you realize it’s hurting. He noticed before you had, and he’d already begun to whisper softly into your ear.

“Little clown,” he purrs as he sees how tense you’ve become as he holds the position of his hips, even though what happens to be buried inside of you is pulsing and rippling through you. “Little clown, relax yourself. Let yourself drift into the embrace of the Messiah’s Pleasure.” You choke. You tell him it hurts too much to be Pleasure. You tell him if this is what the Messiah’s call Pleasure, then they must be some masochistic sons of bitches. Your ancestor confirms that they indeed are, but if you were to relax, and stop being so tense, at least some of the pain (not all of it, in fact, not most of it) would ease somewhat.

His hand on your back traces itself up and down your spine, trying to incite little shivers to make your muscles relax. He whispers to you again, his other hand tracing over your bulge, trying to ignite little vibrations to make you calm.

He begins to pray. You try and make sense of each and every word that slips out of him. But he’s praying, and that, of all things, makes you relax. The calming embrace of the Messiah’s word has wrapped around you and put you at ease. It’s all you need to find yourself losing your mind in the feeling of your ancestor within you.

It still hurts, there’s no denying that. But it’s not horrible. It’s actually pleasant. Or rather, pleasant enough.

And it would only get better.

 

Or worse depending on how you looked at things in hindsight.


	4. Chapter 4

You remember getting in your first fight. One of the Brothers of Sacrifice decided to pick a fight with you shortly after your arrival. He made a point of singling you out for the obvious scars that shone through your makeup. He threw the first punch. But you don’t remember much else.

But you do remember the lovely shade of slightly blue shade of violet on your hands afterwards. You remember being restrained near the end, and someone being rescued from your grasp. You don’t recall his face, and you often wondered if he was still alive. It didn’t matter to you either way. But you remember what he said.

“How’d you get those scars, brother?” he had said. “You snap on a moirail and those your motherfuckin’ reminder that we ain’t allowed to have ‘em?”

That was a rule in your caste.

No moirails allowed.

So that’s why you were such a special snowflake. Behind everyone’s back, aside for your ancestor, you had a moirail. It’s all thanks to the neglect of your lusus. Lusii are known to educate those they care for about what is expected of them. All others would tell their indigo wigglers of how there were no moirails allowed, nor capable of supporting someone indigo. If they were to feel pale romance towards anyone? It should be ignored. Moiraillegiance among the highbloods was a synonym for weakness. One simply does not embrace the call of their blood, and accept moiraillegiance. A pale quadranted subjugglator was a dead one.

But you and your moirail were together since hatching.

It’s not common for moirails to know each other since their wriggling day. But you and he were special. When both of your ancestors had to separate you, they had to pry your miniature, shelled claws of legs off of each other’s thorax before you could be held. You simply were not willing to accept being separated.

You didn’t know it at the time. But a similar sort of relationship had occurred between your ancestor and the one of your moirail.

Once upon a time, they were moirails as well. Wigglerhood, and their early sweeps before your ancestor was taken into a brotherhood much like your own, they had a pale romance that mirrored yours. At one point, they could be found hand in hand, lying in the overgrown grasses of Alternia, stargazing, sharing their feelings.

Your ancestor grew up much like you did. He had been taken in by a lusus who ignored him, leaving him entirely to his own devices, even moreso than other trolls your age. He had been left to fend for himself. Like you, he dribbled sopor slime down his throat, enjoying the liquid, cinnamon-like tingle of heat and relaxation that you often absorbed yourself in. He too was wrapped in his religion as a means of guidance and support, and it was what truly made him comfortable in the world. He was silly, although a bit aloof. Unlike you, he knew how his caste usually turned out. Unlike you, he knew not to have a moirail, despite the powerful paleness that was directed towards the ancestor of your moirail.

But in the end, moiraillegiance can never be deterred. Fought against, tooth and nail? Absolutely.

But it can’t be avoided forever.

As children, your ancestor tried to convince the ancestor of your pale lover that it was forbidden. That a union of diamonds between them was against the rules. If he were to accept the pale feelings that had developed between the two of them, it would surely mean culling. For the both of them. If his mentor discovered that he had had feelings for someone, especially for someone of such a low, bizarre color of blood, it would end in the worst ways possible.

But your moirails ancestor? He was a man of pure patience. He promised to your ancestor that he could wait. As long as he was allowed to embrace the paleness himself, and support your ancestor for all it was worth, he didn’t care much if your ancestor did not do the same for him. For all he cared about was your ancestor’s well being -- not his own.

The simple gesture of admitting that he was wrapped in such feelings so strongly that he didn’t need to even receive reciprocated affection did something to your ancestor. He’d known his entire life he was pale for the other troll, but he knew from a young age that he was not allowed to act on those feelings, and it would be best to ignore them for all it was worth. But but knowing that this other troll, one so weak and so low on the spectrum, only wished to support him, without taking anything for himself? It released a compassion within your ancestor that most trolls will never feel. A selfish, and greedy species, always fighting for its life...and here, a young subjugglator feeling compassion and adoration for another. And for someone so low, while he was so high up.

In secret, they formed a moiraillegiance. Your ancestor swore that once he joined his brotherhood at age eight, that no matter how he acted towards the other, he would never stop being pale. They both knew the risks of a subjugglator in his position, and there were no qualms or arguments. Your ancestor would secretly slip away when he joined the brotherhood, and they would spend the day together, and they would do this as long as they could before a point came where no one would question anything.

For as long as they could as children they would participate in anything they could together to keep their relationship strong. Moiraillegiances can sometimes fall apart if the communication is wrong. And they made a point of showing each other who they were at their best days, as well as their worst days.

When your ancestor joined the brotherhood, they continued their contact, despite his training amongst the other highbloods. Back then, it was not as easy to track where a troll was going all the time, so it was not uncommon for one of the group to vanish for a few hours. More often than not, the full-fledged subjuggltors assumed it involved people sneaking away to have a romp with a matesprit or a kismesis. But never did they expect a moirail.

Your ancestor had been caught once. It was simple. He’d been found wrestling with your moirail’s ancestor, arms outstretched and planted firmly against the ground, holding the other in place as he pinned him into the soil. Upon discovery, he had found that the moiraillegiance between the both of them was strong enough that you were able to put on a charade, to dissuade the prying eyes from assuming it was a playfully display of moiraillegiance before their eyes.

The mutant ancestor leaned forward, his teeth sinking sharply into your ancestor’s shoulder, drawing forth blood, as well as a growl. In unspoken commonutication, and eye contact, your ancestor responded by removing one hand from the arm pinning the other down, and putting it at his throat. The one who discovered them brushed it off as blackrom based on your ancestor’s immediate actions.

But as time progressed, the meetings became less and less frequent. It was your ancestor’s lifestyle, that’s all there was to it. He would vanish for several weeks at a time, only to return to see a very ragged moirail waiting for him. And upon each return, your ancestor had become more and more hardened by his training. He became more violent, more on edge, more likely to overreact and let his emotions go wild. But each time, the other would be able to ease his mania, and they would become close, comfortable and above all: happy.

However, it would continue to remain somewhat strained. Your ancestor started to have episodes of violence and rage that the other troll could not assist with. Unlike you, he would not slowly be weaned off the sopor slime. He would have it totally removed from his system, and would be left to his own violent devices. More often than not, your moirails ancestor would have to use everything he had in him to calm him down.

Your ancestor would often snap at him. His tone becoming curt. Powerful. Rude. But he would apologize frequently, always managing a smile (even a weak one) to remind the troll who pacified him that he was still as pale as pale could get for him. And that’s all that they truly needed from one another.

But it was clear, at thirteen sweeps of age, that your ancestor’s evolution was wearing your moirail’s ancestor out. Your ancestor had to always put up appearances when in public, even when only one or two others were present (no matter their caste) and he would have to put on the image of a subjugglator. As a fully realized one, he knew that no one would ever accept him for having a moirail. Those below him would not fear him, and those above would not respect him. It would have to remain a secret.

He would meet his moirail one final time. It was a meeting that would both benefit and wound them both. Your ancestor knew how much his change was paining the other, and he brought forth the idea that the both of them continue this moiraillegiance in ways more private than just secret meetings. Private letters as correspondence, only seeing each other once a sweep. Allow each other to seek out their own calling (whether it be the forced lifestyle of indigo for your ancestor, or the desire for equality for the other). It was not a break up, but a mutual decision to save one another from the discouraging glares of society.

They would only meet two more times, a sweep later. The first time being an accident.

Your ancestor had been selected to collect a young indigo grub who had hatched at a nearby cavern--it was you--and he was to gauge the appropriateness of the lusus interested in him. In return, the grub would be given his sign. When your ancestor arrived at the caverns, not only did he find the violet wriggler, curled up next to a bright red one, refusing to let go--he also saw a moirail of his whom he had not seen for quite some time.

He was weary, age had caught up to him. For your ancestor, fourteen sweeps was youthful. For his moirail, it was ancient. Lines decorated his face, his eyes tired from exhaustion and struggle. Your ancestor took his hands and while avoiding the prying eyes of others, he held the lowblood close to him, a pale embrace gone public being the least of his concerns. Together, the both of them would separate the two grubs, and they would prepare themselves to take the young back to their respective hives.

Together, they saw what transpired between the two grubs. They saw something between them that they had often seen between themselves. Your ancestor spoke with his moirail about his desire to not allow the indigo wiggler he was holding to be separated permanently from the obvious grub-hood moirail that he had found himself after hatching. His moirail knew much about the forbidden code of moirails among the subjugglators, and he agreed with him. It would not be right to separate moirails and allow them to grow up thinking of how something would be missing from their lives.

It was settled. They would see to it as the grubs grew older, they would privately arranged for them to be together, and allow the moiraillegiance to bloom to its fullest potential.

For five sweeps, they pushed your moiraillegiance along.

The last time your ancestor saw his moirail was the last time he allowed himself to express any flicker of red emotion.

He had been traveling, heading towards a small town where one of his indigo brethren had been killed by an uprising against highbloods. Inside he suspected it may have to do with his moirail, but it seemed so unlikely.

Although, his moirail was indeed present. But it would not be for long.

When your ancestor discovered his moirail, he saw how age had truly attacked him. But perhaps not in the way that he had attacked something else. Indigo blood coated his hands, and he was trembling while he hid in the remains of a devastated building. His arms were wrapped around his stomach, his lips pulled into a pained smile. It was a smile that grew when he saw the troll whom he assumed had come to finish him off.

But your ancestor did not finish him off. He merely sat down next to his moirail, a large arm wrapping over his shoulders, feeling the ripples of trembles as he leaned in close. He spoke softly to your ancestor, speaking of how the dead highblood had discovered their moiraillegiance. How he had to keep your ancestor safe. How he did not mind death or pain, as long as the indigo was safe, and able to live easily. That’s all he had ever truly wanted from a moiraillegiance.

But according to your ancestor, he would not even have ever known what a moiraillegiance was without him.

Together, they slipped away into a feelings jam, that only once has the universe been able to replicate. Somewhere along the lines, you and your moirail had one. Almost parallel to that of your ancestors.

Your ancestor stayed with his moirail until the sun rose and set, an arm still holding him close. He spoke, told stories, shared the good times they had between them.  
And maybe that was all the mutant needed.

Maybe all he needed in his life was to know he had fulfilled his own goal as being moirail to the highblood.

For during one of the stories about their times together (perhaps the one where chewing gum had gotten stuck in your ancestor’s hair) he passed on.

The howl of anguish that came from your ancestor would only be mimicked again by you, the day your moirail passed on as well. And the actions he performed, would only be copied by you as well.

Trolls do not mourn.

But you and your ancestor were a strange duo.

Not only did you disobey the rules of forbidden moiraillegiance.

But you and he both mourned.


	5. Chapter 5

Usually when you slept, you would meet the other you. The you that you kept suppressed. Hidden away so that he would do as little harm as possible. To you, to your ancestor, your moirail--to everyone. You knew that he was a danger, and you avoided him. You tried to keep him locked away so that you might never have to speak to him. But he was always scratching at the surface, at the wall you built in your head to keep him at bay. He had his own little sanctuary within your thinkpan, filled with faceless and nameless trolls of all colors so that he might be able to satisfy his bloodlust and his creative drive. When you closed your eyes to look at him to see what he created, it was often a spectacle to behold. If you had let him be free, your skills within the arts would have become enormous. At least you think so. You think if you let him out, your ancestor would truly love the work you would create.

But this other you is one that you keep locked inside.

But he whispers to you when you don’t realize he’s paying attention. Shortly after you put up the wall in your head to keep him away, he punched out one of the bricks so he could get a little peak at the world you hid him from. Never pleased, he always left little messages for you, either in your head, or he would take control for only a few moments (only briefly, thanks to your wall in your head). And he would leave little hints and clues and horrible words and images to remind you of what you were closing off.

He scares you. From the day he first made himself known, he scared you.

The wall is made of bricks of sopor. Bricks that are slowly going rancid, deteriorating and turning into a molding mess on the floorboards of your brain. The other you dares not taste the rotten substance. He knows better than you.

He whispers to you all the time. He whispers to you of how it should be. How you and he both know that your sopor is nothing but a means of diluting your nature.

He knows when you are at your most vulnerable. So he strikes in sleep.

He often wakes you within your dream. When you realize that you are dreaming within a dream, it means he will be waking you up soon. And you’ll be faced with horrors that life can’t even dare compete with. More often than not, you wake up at the Carnival. You’ve told your ancestor of your dreams of the Carnival, and the vivid colors, bright lights--the sheer beauty of it all. Word of the Messiahs is that the Carnival is ancient. Abandoned. Filled with inoperable rides that will only regain their function when truly loyal followers pass on. It’s a reward in the afterlife for the loyal. But the rides will only come to those who have truly embraced the calling of every mirthful aspect. You had only mastered three of the nine Joys when you first dreamed of the Carnival. When you spoke to your ancestor of the magical place, he told you it was nothing more than a vivid dream, and most likely had nothing significant about it.  
But you latched on to hoping that it would truly be what you were striving for.

The Carnival was always vibrant. It was a living and breathing entity of its own. As far as you could see, rides decorated the never-ending landscape, all running beautifully. Upon the rides were faceless people, clearly enjoying themselves with their hands in the air, the sounds of jovial laughter echoing in the air. The air was thick with the scent of fried dough, deep-fried-and-breaded-protein-links-on-a-stick, carbonated beverages (of the most wicked variety) and various other confections. It hung heavy with the warm aroma of oil and machinery to make the entire experience a nasal overload. Lights flickered and sirens wailed, automated cheering and whistling rattled about as people participated in games and other activities, some winning, some losing, but it was all in good fun. The Carnival was not here to make anyone unhappy. It was here to make the afterlife comfortable. Awe was something that truly came over you.

You often wondered if you were one of those people who could see the afterlife in their dreams. Your first trip to the Carnival in your head, you remember only wanting one thing. A moirail, one passed on two sweeps earlier. But faces were all featureless. Sure, you could have created him from memories. But you wanted the real deal.

It would not be until you found a face that did stand out that you would discover that there is a vast difference between dreaming of the Carnival, and using Dream Bubbles. They were very different, and they were never to intermingle. You would stumble upon familiar horns, familiar makeup (although this makeup was dirtied, smeared and in need of touch-up), familiar clothes. But a face much more weary of bullshit than yours.

You. You were looking at yourself, watching how you weaved through crowds as if the crowds were moving around the duplicate, rather than he move around the crowds. He walked heavily, each step a trudge, arms swinging with a faint demonstration of frustration as he slumped along. He wandered, possibly aware that you were watching him. But he was leading you, like a barkbeast upon a leash. He was in charge, and you were merely a magnet drawn to his pole. When he came to his stop, a game stand that had long since been abandoned (or perhaps it was only abandoned because he wanted it to be.) he lifted himself up and sat upon the counter of the stand, face fixed ahead as he looked at you, his lips pulled into a thin smirk, his makeup stretching out messily, looking more like he had a split lip, thanks to the smeared makeup.

“Been followin’ me for a while now, haven’t you brother?” he asked, his hands resting upon the counter, nails tap-a-tap-tapping on the splintering and poorly painted wood. It was a hideous shade of goldenrod, and from what you could tell, it had either been a brilliantly lovely shade of yellow, or it was flaking troll blood.

The blood seemed more likely.

“Ain’t bein’ every day that you all be gettin’ a motherfuckin’ glimpse of yourself without it all bein’ done with a mirror.” you reply, watching his smile cautiously. You have yet to return the expression, being to concerned as to why this other you is so beat up.

Incredibly beat up. His face is slashed open, indigo dripping from relatively fresh cuts. Makeup is smudged all over, with little regard of fixing it up, hair messier than you ever like it (even on bad days) and blood smeared all over his clothes and arms. He doesn’t seem all that phased by it. But yet, you cannot help but feel an air of concern about him. You can tell from your position, no more than five feet back from the counter, that this copy of you is a fair bit younger than you are. Not astronomically so, but it’s as if his aging had been stunted.

“Not likely or common for two halves of a coin to be lookin’ each other in the eye.” he adds, flexing his arm back and examining some bright, green blood speckled on his arm. Beneath his breath, he mumurs something along the lines of ‘He just woudln’t go down...’ And you almost feel a pang of sympathy for him. You’ve been there before, when a blasphemer just would not go down. “But if I’m all recalling the wicked word, my brother, the jury never was all seeing a motherfucking coin in the motherfucking first place.”

He’s lost interest in his arm, and has pulled his head upwards to look at you with a mischievously unsettling smile upon his lips. He’s looking at you from the corners of his eyes, despite seeming to want to focus on the bridge of his nose. “And that coin’ ain’t bein’ all motherfucking thrilled to know that he ain’t been MOTHERFUCKING FLIPPED IN A WHILE.”

His voice shifts in volume rapidly, and his entire posture changes. Not even seconds pass before he is upon his feet and grasping your collar, his eyes a deep, rusty shade of red (a color you know as the color of murderous intent among highbloods). He snarls at you, not caring in the slightest that he has not given you any reaction time. “Ain’t liking being all MOTHERFUCKING TRAPPED HERE.” The shift in volume reminds you heavily of your ancestor and you have to fight away the things you want to say in fear of letting him push you around too much. Younger or not, this copy of you is strong, and he is prepared to assault you, no questions asked. “This isn’t my Carnival, man.” He continues on. “SO WHY YOU ALL MOTHERFUCKING LOCKING ME HERE without any way to let me be who I was all up and meant to be.”

You try and raise your hands, upwards in a defensive position, prepared to inform the other you that you don’t mean any harm. He scoffs, laughing, making a comment along the lines of ‘If I kill you, then I die.” and your hands lower back down, allowing him to keep his grip on you. It was a means of making you see that there was no truly violent intent here. But you felt it.You could feel it pounding in your skull like a dull ache that was a persistent headache.

“Not knowin’ what you’re all meaning.” You say to the other you, his nails are sharper than yours, pricking the fibers of your shirt, and unweaving them as he severs some of the weaving connecting them together.

The other laughs, it’s a bitter sort of sound. There’s a heavy lacing of acidic pain behind it, like you did something to scorn this other you, long ago. What you could have done, you can’t say. His laugh does not cease, it just echos, long after he’s closed his mouth and stepped away from you. The air grows thicker. No longer does the heaviness of excitement and heat from the carnival rides take authority in the atmosphere, no, this other you has decided to twist the environment for all it’s worth. His laugh remains in the air, some pitches simultaneously higher and lower than the original sound. It strikes you that this other you is not only you by appearance, but you by nature.

A nature that you can faintly recall rejecting, due to it being too scary for your young mind to deal with.

You feel the heavy throb of chuckle voodoos in the air from him, he’s not even trying and he doesn’t even have to reach into your head to pull out your fears. Your fears are standing in front of you, using the very power that troll society naturally fears, next to the wrath of Her Imperious Condescension. He’s prickling you with the pangs of ominous intent and the warping dizziness that comes from being overwhelmed.

You know you should not be scared of this other you. If you could lock him away in your head once you could do it again. But that was the problem. You were in your head. You were in his domain. You were living in your nightmare, but his paradise.

The throb takes control again. Your mind clears itself.

When you were six, coming to terms with your position in your caste, you had a perigee of weakness. Your ancestor would tell you later that it was a form of puberty for you, and only one of a few stages of it. After a few nights of slime-submerged dreaming, you were wrought with nightmares, ones that should be fought away from your tiny mind thanks to the healing attributes of the slime. Instead, as you submerged yourself deeper in the slime, the nightmares got worse. For a short time, you concluded that the slime was causing the nightmares.  
So everything you could do with the substance? You resisted. You cut the consumption out. The sleeping. Anything you could cut out with the slime, you cut out. You refused to touch it. The strength of the nightmares was enough to scare you away.

And without the slime, the nightmares stayed away. Dry sleep was doing you good. Perhaps it was only because you wanted it to do good.

And you started to speak to yourself. You always had, but you had started to talk to yourself in ways that you never had before. It was maliciously playful. Part of you would speak about how much fun it might be to slaughter a few low bloods. Another part (which perhaps this part was really you? Or maybe it was the other self?) would resist and say the idea was silly. You began to paint with the slime, a sliver of yourself hinting that it was blood, a color long since considered a rarity, almost a mutation at this point in time. You would smear the color all over your walls, only for rage to set in.

“IT NEEDS MORE FUCKING COLOR.” you would scream at yourself when you found yourself growing absolutely sick of the color green. It would drive you to slashing yourself open and dribbling the indigo essence that was your own blood into a cup. You now had a canvas of two colors. Your possibilities were growing. If you blended the two colors together you’d get a shade of brown, and yet.

It wasn’t enough. You wanted more color. You rationalized that there were plenty of others out there with more colors for you to partake in. This was what you meant when you said that you should be out cracking skulls. You wanted to paint. That’s all this was ever about. You had nightmares to paint, and terrors to share. You had work to do.

You had a job.

You wouldn’t know for another sweep, that you were responding to your calling.

The other you had come out, and he had made his choice to take control. He wanted to paint (just as much as you did) but he was the one who knew how to get more color. You knew where a lovely shade of blue, and a lovely shade of green were residing. You knew where red, and brown, and violet were all located as well. You were going to collect that precious pigment, and--

You had work to do.

The other you had a way of shutting you out, just as much as you had of shutting him away. He made sure you wouldn’t see a thing when he went about trying to strangle one friend, and bludgeon the other. Very few droplets of color were collected. His rage woke you up and brought you back to reality before more harm could be done.

They hadn’t died. But their trust in you was broken.

You ran, returning to your hive, treating it like a cage for a misbehaved beast. And the turmoil again.

You fought with yourself. Arguing. Trying to understand why you would go out and do that. Why would you go after your friends? If you wanted color so badly, you could have asked and they may or may not have agreed to donate a little. But you had nearly killed them. You had nearly severed a perfect moiraillegiance. You had nearly destroyed lives.

The other you argued that it was for the greater good. That you should be grateful. That you had just been done a favor, that you were ready to adhere to the calling of your caste.

You wouldn’t accept it. You would not let this be who you were “supposed” to be. You had attacked your friends. You had planned on killing them. You couldn’t let this be what you were destined to do.

You paced around, hands knotted up in your hair, gripping at the scalp, tugging at the bases of your horns. Each step was a dull thud, and each step resonated a deep pounding in your skull and you knew it was the other you fighting back. You screamed for relief. You screamed for him to go away. You screamed. You just...screamed.

You didn’t want to kill anyone. You didn’t want this other you to win out over the both of you in the end. You didn’t want to let this you destroy who you were. You were comfortable as yourself.

You stripped. You removed your clothes, tossed them in a pile in preparation to burn them. Color earned in violence would only breed more violence. Destroy the pain, destroy the desire to cause it. You plummet into your cocoon, you submerge your head as best you can and you just concentrate on having the nightmares go away. It was a living nightmare, manifested in your head and in the form of blood on your hands. Steadily, bricks start to form in your think pan, closing up the hole of understanding that you so desperately wanted to fill back up. You wanted to block it all out. The bricks in your mind stacked, a wall shutting away this other person. This other you. This monster that you were scared of becoming.

Your mouth opened wide in the cocoon, globs of slime floating into your mouth, slithering down your throat. You didn’t care that it was entirely raw, and that it was probably not healthy (who cared about health right now?) to eat it straight. You feel the syrupy warmth dribble down your throat, and the haze of the sopor high already making quick work in your mind. It’s perfect. It’s shutting out the worst of it all. It would be the fastest you ever fell asleep, and when you woke, you would be greeted to the impatient, and frustrated mug of your moirail, sitting outside your cocoon, a long rant obviously prepared, forgotten in favor of hugging your useless ass before you broke down into tears.

But now was not the time to be dwelling on the times long ago when a moirail was alive to make all the bad dreams vanish.

 

Now was a time to be wondering why life was all throwing you a curve ball in the form of the you that you never wanted to be. But he’s not harming you. Other than the rough grab at the collar, you’re fine.

“Why you all gotta be doin’ this?” you ask him as he shares in this private joke with himself.

He doesn’t answer you. He never does.

It’s like his mere existence is just a reminder to you that you can fight all you want, and you can deny your calling as much as it takes, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less true.

And one day, you would be gone.

And the nightmare would be left.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First attempt at writing ??? Makara, but I'll change things accordingly or just make this Makara an OC.
> 
> Also: this scene will be finished in the next chapter.

There was another troll bearing your sign within the brotherhood. He was not around often, due to him being older, and a full fledged subjugglator. He had work to do, and it wasn’t work to be done in a collective hive of (in his view) wigglers. You had met him a number of times before, but never really spoke, never even exchanged names other than being told to address him as Miser Makara. Your ancestor was Lord Makara, and beneath him was the Miser. There were still a few ranks beneath them, but you were a grunt, and you needed to be as respectful as possible, regardless of the shared sign, color and lineage.

In a human universe, he would have been your brother. But you don’t know what humans are, and you never will. So there was a sense of irony really, that when in your future, informal conversation with him after you had spoken to him outside of the collective hive, you called him ‘brother’.

You met him when you were seven, still a wiggler to the universe, and your fellow descendant was around ten sweeps. A tad older than you were, but he had just enough experience prior to his joining the brotherhood that he was the youngest subjugglator admitted to a ranked position since your ancestors youth.

He was good at what he did. You wouldn’t know this, but your ancestor raised him very similarly to you. He saw to it that he get the chance to have a moirail to tame his own unruly arse, just like you and your ancestor had. The other Makara would never speak of it. He would deny moiraillegiance, just as much as any other indigo blood who secretly was quadranted outside of the caste would.

He was popular. Despite not being a permanent (or was it temporary? You could never keep it straight with all the grunts wandering around) resident of the brotherhood’s hive any longer, he still had his very own respiteblock which made other higher ranking younglings envious. Why should this fucker get his own special dwelling, but they had to live in clusters together?

As far as most of them were concerned, it was because the Capricornus Indigos were elite and deserved pampering. You wouldn’t know this, but your fellow descendent during his early days was bullied and beaten a lot, thanks to the belief that he was privileged and being given the easy path. Little did the accusers know, but the higher ones placement among the caste, the more pressure, and the more work you’re required to do.

Perhaps that’s why your ancestor was always so surprised to see you passing your own trials whenever they arose. You were never the brightest tool in the box. Whatever that meant. You supposed it was because you made a point of thinking outside of that box, and drew your own maps with your own dull crayons, sharpened the best they could be with the rusty axe found in the shed, glowing with the dimly lit flicker of a dying lightbulb.

The other descendent doesn’t much know what to think of you. You suppose it’s because neither of you really know one another. And there’s also the matter of there being a number of sweeps between you. Your ancestor seems to be rather proud of how well the other Makara is doing in the adjusted world of Alternia. He’s been off the planet for a couple missions to nearby, colonized planets, just for basic cleanup work, and within the perigee, he’s back on the planet, cleaning up a mess of another kind. He has a lot of admirers, you’ve noted. Boys, girls, older, younger, handful of wigglers who are too young to even really understand pailing yet. But they’ve still got a sweep or so of innocence left on them before the remaining little stubs of their grublet legs shrivel up and fall off (metaphorically speaking, of course) and they’re introduced to the harsh reality of the culling society.

You had a red-pailing with your moirail once, but that’s a long story for another time, and another mood. What can you say, you were trying to save his life.

Your fellow descendent however, from the looks of things, he had a new red and black fling every time the drones knocked on the door. Seems all he had to do was pull someone he was fond of (or not fond of) to his side and scurry off into a closet, bang out a couple pails (pun not intended) and he was on his merry way. You didn’t understand the appeal of having new red and black flings all the time. Where was the fun in that? Didn’t he enjoy the comforting relaxation of slipping into romantic feelings, slowly, like you’re falling asleep, but having these little miraculous epiphanies that indicate that something good is happening? That you’re actually falling in love or hate with someone. It’s always a soothing, playful little tease of a feeling, and it only seems to float around when you’re falling to sleep.

You actually thought that maybe you were drifting slowly into the tickling embrace of hate for your fellow descendant. You actually suspected that you were that offended by his apparent promiscuity that you were developing romantic interest in him. A hypocrite if there had ever been one. But after some internal deliberation, a long walk and a few skipped rocks and severed heads, you concluded that it wasn’t a caliginous crush. Rather, it was frustration and mild confusion that came from wondering how it could possibly be that your ancestor was accepting of his devious behavior. And that above all, he could be who he was and still be a subjugglator.

But you, however, you were relaxed, spiritual, overall rather peaceful, and yet you were the one making mistakes all the time. Maybe it was because your fellow descendant was a bit older and had shown your ancestor that he was who he was and there was no changing him.

Or maybe his personality was what your ancestor was hoping you might grow into.

You had thought to ask the other Makara what his deal was, but when you approached him, he just leaned back in his “office chair” (the term being used loosely. It was a drab room and the office chair was really an old reclining chair with a couple of patches covering up springs, stuffing and grimy foam from within.) his head overhanging the back of the chair as his upside-down-eyes glanced you over with a smirk that showed off the oversized canines that you had now figured were genetic. When you asked him where it is he gets off.

He just gave you a laugh, holding up (what you suspect was) a sopor-laced cigarette and puffing away at the little stick of magic. “I can get off in you, brother.” He said rather coolly as he sat up straight and spun his chair around, smiling broadly at you, as if you had just said a funny joke. One leg lifts itself from the floor and crosses over his lap, the violet rings of his pants shifting so they almost look more like sideways eights looking on infinitely. He rested the hand not holding the cigarette on his knee, his nails (painted purple) rapping lightly against his flesh.

“Seriously.” He says, his lips still pulled into a smirk. “Been hearin’ from the ol’ man that you’re a real good pail.”

You were seven when he told you this. Only once, had your ancestor been with you and that had been your first with anyone.

His head does a quick, short incline, his eyes becoming lidded as the smirk on his face softens, but there’s still a sting to it that makes the entire look upon his face seem simultaneously inviting and foreboding.

You ask him if you really have a choice in the matter.

“Course you do.” He says. “But only if you’re not okay with feelin’ your nook get filled up so tight that the idea of even thinkin’ of pulling out makes everything just grow so much tighter. And you’re also not okay with a motherfucker getting his fingers all rubbin’ at your shiver nub under your bulge before he’s all stroking a little shit’s bulge into dribbling his load into a pail just precariously slid beneath your legs so that someone may or may not be delivering it to a drone later. And maybe you also don’t like the idea of getting carnal with a motherfucker, break into old customs, do a little fuckin’ egg play – we all got ‘em, but we never use ‘em – little bit of nastiness. But you’re not into none of that, are you?”

You hate to admit it, but you are. At least you think so. You’re young. You don’t know everything.

But it all sounds like something you like.

He notices, primarily because he can see the faint lump at the front of your pants that accompanies slight arousal. The other Makara gives you a laugh and crooks a finger slowly, each knuckle cracking faintly as he urges you closer.

He says he’s not surprised. Lots of the Capricorns like play that others can’t really appreciate. It must run in the gene pool.

If the old man enjoyed it, chances are, both you and the other descendant enjoyed the same things.

You don’t immediately head over to him. In your mind, you reason that it really could be a pretty fun time, but the doors open, and the walls are thin. So, you think about it for a moment before you close the door behind you. You hear it click, the latch locking itself immediately from the inside. It seemed like the other descendent did this often, by the looks of it, at least. You hear him laugh as he leans back again. The sound is somewhere between the sound of your half-dazed chuckle and the booming chortle of your ancestor when things go a little too according to plan.

Cautiously, you approach him, and he’s already in the process of unzipping the vest that the higher subjugglators wore, with stripes indicating their rank. As you stand before him, he grabs you by the wrist, fingers enclosing around the leather gloves of your forearms. He tugs, but it’s just enough to pull your arm towards him. He guides your hand to his face, unpainted fingers being brought to feel the oily texture of the other trolls spiritual makeup.

His face is decorated similarly to your ancestors. While your ancestor has the look of a skull adorned with sharp fangs, and sunken eyes with faux scars scratching along his cheeks, the other descendant has something similar. His eyes are more elaborately done, showing the look of razor edging around them to bring a sort of narrow point to the design around each eye. But the fangs painted around his lips were curved into more of a smile than your ancestors. His smile pulls back making the intricate design appear to be like a broad, toothy laugh instead of a playful smirk.

He asks you what you think. There are subtle details to his makeup that you suppose your ancestor had once done, but ceased to do in his older sweeps. But you can tell the other descendant has a steady hand as he has thin lines and flourishes carefully hidden in his profile. You tell him you’re beyond impressed and he directs your fingers to his lips, which take them in slowly, curling around them and sliding them inside.

You briefly wonder what it is about your color (or your sign for this matter) that makes the three of you have insatiable oral fixations. You shudder, the damp heat of the other descendants mouth causes you to get distracted by the simple wetness of it all. You watch him, silently, breathing as slowly as possible, taking in the little ways his lips move over your fingers, and the way his cheeks puff out as a knuckle nudges against the inner walls of his mouth. You feel your lips part, a curious tongue of yours wiggling out to lick at the chapped flesh before you notice your stupid gesture and yank it back in. The other descendant glances up at you, his eyes you've noticed had not closed during the little oral exchange. His throat buckles, beginning to suck on each of your fingers. You feel the faint suction, and you gasp, the sound breathy and stifled. You can tell that he wants to laugh when you do that, but he doesn’t. His head bobs back and forth, curious to see if you’ll let out another gasp, and though you fight most of it, the sound is still there, and so is the expression stating that you’re being generously turned on by the attention being given to your fingers. Nothing else, just your fingers. You suppose he’s learned from your ancestor, but then learned how to put his own spin on things.

When he removes your fingers, there’s sweet, cool air licking at your digits. The gasp comes out of you again, this time, you weren’t expecting it. As his lips pull back from each finger, there’s thick strings of saliva attaching his mouth to your fingers, glistening in the dim light. You can almost see the heat of his breath as it comes from deep within his oxygen sacks, because you sure as hell can feel it. He smiles at you, the threads breaking as he pulls you close to him again. Not only close, but on to his lap, forcing you into straddling his lap.

There’s something very pleasant about straddling a lap at this age. You’re still hormonal. You’re still young. You’re still checking out all these interesting things that make your body feel good. The single fling you had with your ancestor when he visited you only woke up a carnal yearning that you hadn’t really embraced just yet.

You watch your fellow descendant as a hand carelessly starts to rub between your legs, purring beneath his breath as he feels the very peak of your bulge squirming out from within its hiding place in the refuge of your body. You don’t feel the pause in your breathing like you had when your ancestor had taken you, but instead, you’re too distracted. You’re hanging on his ever motion, trying to figure out what his hands and fingers would do to drive you blissfully mad. His thumb is doing the most of the work, sneaking around as he gropes you through the ringlet-covered pants. It knows where to poke and prod, with just the right sort of pressure to drive you a little nuts, but without pushing you overboard just yet.

Teasing.

That’s precisely what he’s doing as each little pad of his fingers stroke you agonizingly playfully. You watch them move with such precision and care. Though he is young (nowhere near the age of your ancestor) he’s practiced. Probably more than he lets on. And here you were, the lucky subject that gets to see all that he can do. His palm is positioned in such a way that if he wanted to, he could essentially be grabbing you, a whole damn handful of you in his grasp. But you haven’t fully unsheathed yet, and that’s what he’s waiting for.

He asks you if you’ve pailed yet (stupid question! He already knew you had, and he was just doing to get you riled up, wasn't he?), and the words trigger you into letting out a faint gurgling noise to indicate that you have – but just once with your shared ancestor. He laughs and the position of his hand shifts, and he’s now grasping at the top of your pants, fussing with the button to unfasten them. As the button slides free from its fastenings, and the zipper clicks down with agonizing slowness, you suddenly realize that you like the idea of being teased, and treated like you don’t deserve things as much as you like to think you do.

As the pants open and your fellow descendent manages to wriggle a hand inside – oh man his hands are so warm. You were expecting ice. – he uses that skillful thumb to trace over the outline of your now slowly escaping bulge from inside its refuge. There’s still a line of it visible in your shorts but the other doesn’t seem to mind all that much. He chides you a bit, his lips pulled into a smirk as a playful little giggle comes from him, his free hand creeping up your back in a slow, steady motion, inching its way along your spine. His palm presses firmly once it’s between your shoulder blades and pulls you closer to him. You expect his gesture to be one that another person might assume was used to draw someone in for a kiss, in fact, you even suspect such a thing. Close, but no cigar. Instead, the hand upon your back quickly slinks to the front, unfastening the zipper of your vest and pulling it down. You shrug your shoulders about, trying to slide it off the best you can, but the other Makara has already found his target. His lips fasten tightly upon your neck, the collarbone more specifically, thanks to the wide collar of the shirt beneath the vest. His lips purse tightly, and he sucks, the sound of his mouth squelching and nearly silly, but it’s still enough of a sound to indicate that he was aiming to bring blood just to the very surface. Groans escape from you as the hand that worked upon your vest and back is now working its way under the front of the shirt, trickling little touches sending chills along your every nerve, allowing goosebumps to surface all around.

You don’t even know his name, but you groan anyways, a carefully casual “Oh fuck” that shows approval in the most sincerely-obscene ways. He gropes you again, his hand at your bulge, somewhere along the lines having surprised you by tugging your shorts off enough to slide you out. You lift yourself up on his lap for a moment, allowing the pants and shorts to fall lower on your thighs, closer towards your knees. The other descendent, pleased with the eagerness, as well as with the glistening violet already swelling between your legs, smiles and runs a devious digit between the adjoined flaps of your nook to gauge your reaction. Everything twitches. Your thighs, knees, ankles—your stomach, chest and neck –your shoulders, biceps and wrists –Everything. Twitches.

He withdraws his finger, taking note of the slimy, pale-violet concoction. He holds it to your lips and you graciously take it into your mouth to get the slightest taste of yourself.

That’s the thing about Indigo bloods. You’re a very sexual bunch of creatures.

When it doesn’t come to mirth, culling and unsettling laughter, your caste can be found participating in the delightfully sinful acts of life. It wasn’t uncommon for one to trudge around the brotherhood, a stirring in your loins indicating the desire to pail with someone. It wasn’t uncommon for someone to grab another person in the hall, put them against the wall before an odd, caste-only consensual dance would be performed by two trolls who – most likely – had only ever met in passing.

It happened all the time.

So this act with your fellow descendent?

It was no different.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. My god. I finally have a chapter for you good folks.  
> Next chapter has GamKar smut, just a heads up.  
> But I promise I won't go that long without a chapter again.

His name is Kurloz.

You and he are quite literally one in the same, but yet so very different and very similar.

This instance of you and he pailing together in his quarters was the last time he spoke to anyone, that wasn’t among the subjugglating elite.

His rank, at his age, required him to do something that most others don’t ever do.

He had to take an oath of Spiritual Silence for the Mirthful Messiahs.

After he pailed you (and in such delightfully explicit ways) he would take you back to your own quarters, as if what had just transpired between the both of you was some sort of red fling. A kiss would be placed upon your knuckles, and he would bow, without saying a word. And like that, he would leave.

The ceremony of Spiritual Silence involves two very crucial things, one of which is permanent for anyone beneath a blue blood. And that is the Spiritual Severance of the Tongue. For most lower castes, the severing of one’s tongue is permanent. It will never be repaired, but for high bloods, a tongue will grow back within about half a sweep. Indestructible creatures, those highbloods.

But for Kurloz, he would be presented among a council of his peers, and guided into a kneeling position where the hooded Mirthful Monks would approach him, beckoning him to lean his head forward into a suspended ring. Around him, in a circular auditorium, fellow highbloods, subjugglators, and tyrians alike, would be present to watch this induction. This ceremony, of bringing a young subjugglator to the ranks of a high one, is most honorable and most noble.

For Kurloz, even Her Imperious Condescension was present.

When you came along, your ancestor kept you away from her. In her eyes, you were culling material, and yet, your ancestor was being protective of you. It was a shame, you saw the familiar, formerly peaceful and cheerful visage of your friend, the Heiress, from across the room. You wanted to see her. To talk to her. To ask her if she was doing well. She was unhappy. She didn’t like being under the care of her ancestor. But yet, there was nothing you could do.

At the ceremony, you were advised to stay close to your ancestor, as his own personal disciple, and you were not to intervene, no matter how much you wished. As Kurloz was placed before the Mirthful Monks, he merely smiled, a peaceful sort of stance glowing about him. His mouth opened before them, and he spoke one of the ancient prayers (one that you had heard was nearly taboo to recite unless involved with a ritual of this sort). His eyes closed, and the glow that he had about him only seemed to intensify. It became almost like a beacon of religious euphoria as he spoke. The words of the prayer, you had always thought to be too simplistic and childish, but hearing them spoken from someone so versed in his art, they sounded like the most wicked of slam poetry that you had ever been graced to hear. As the soliloquy ended, he parted his lips (that just a night or so before had been curved around the crook of your neck, leaving the obnoxious violet welts that you had to shamefully cover up in the presence of your peers) and his tongue extended forward. He became poised, content, as if expecting some sort of sugary morsel to be dropped upon his tongue. And yet you felt the same sort of anticipation. However, what would come would not be as sweet as you had imagined, that is if you weren’t the type to call the swill within your veins sweet already.

One of the monks pulled from within his robes a possibly archaic blade, a small one in size, but it was no doubt sharp as it was quickly swung down, slicing through Kurloz’s tongue, with a bright splash of plum hued fluid as a chunk of muscle came down on the small table with a light thud. Kurloz did not scream, in fact he sort of welcomed the intrusion to his mouth, as it would appear. The blood would come out like its own sort of mystical waterfall of violet as it gushed over his lips. But this would not last for long as the remains of his tongue were grasped, despite the slickness that came from the blood pouring out of the severed organ. You did not know exactly what it was, but there was the scent of burning flesh, and you could only assume the tongue was being cauterized to prevent anymore blood from being wasted.

Color such as yours was a precious one, and was not meant to be wasted unless necessary.

What you witnessed was a religious right, and it required a blood sacrifice.

The monks then approach him once more, as he remains still and now silent as the grave (amusing, isn’t it? He was a subjugglator focusing in the Joy of Murder.) with a needle and thick thread, probably the width of several strands of hair from a wild antler beast. Kurloz doesn’t seem to argue, but his lips purse shut and he allows the monks to approach him, the needle gleaming in the light. The work they do is quick, and effortless. The needle is used to slide through the layers of flesh that are Kurloz’s lips, and they tug the thick cord through and loop it around in a repetitive motion in order to form stitching over your fellow descendant’s mouth.

And somehow, with that, the ritual ends.

Incredibly anti-climactic. There is no applause. There is no prayer. It simply ends.

Silent, just the same as Kurloz.

But this is not now. This is later in your life.

But now?

Now you’re currently lurching over Kurloz’s shoulder as his hand plunges into you. His fingers work rapidly as they curl and stroke the inner walls of your nook, unchallenged and incredibly skilled as they wriggle about. Kurloz’s hand is at the back of your skull, lips curved over your throat, teeth gnashing at your flesh to scrape flakes of hide from your body, allowing spurts of blood, and violet markings to surface in seconds. Your hand forces its way to the back of his head as his mouth works upon you. Fingers grasp clumps of hair, urging his lips to slide their way to your collar bone. You tug rather furiously, grunting as his hand pulls from inside you. A whining sound of protest as you suddenly feel so empty, and his fingers run over your stomach, smearing your hue over your abdomen.

“Help me out,” he whispers to you as his head lifts up. “Can’t be letting you have all the fun, can we?” Kurloz guides your hands to his hips, having taken note of how you had been feverishly placing them wherever they landed. He can tell that you are but a novice, and he’s here to aid you. He takes the hand you’ve located upon his skull, and your other hand, wandering about aimlessly, confused as to where to head, and each of them are now at his hips, allowing you the opportunity to undress him. At least partially. “Don’t strip me all the way, little clown.” He purrs as your hands begin their tedious work of unfastening his pants.

You take note of this. His way of speaking. He’s in charge, and he likes being in charge. He can order you around, and you comply so simply. You think you’ve figured something out about yourself. You find yourself wanting, when the person you are with implies their want as well. You want because they want. So their arousal, becomes yours.

Or perhaps it’s just the haunting glow of Kurloz’s eyes as he speaks to you, shimmering with such devious intent as he cups your chin, causing a little idea to spark up within your skull. His neck has been such a luxurious bit of flesh to behold, and you almost long to taste the ashen flesh of his collar, and return the favor of marking like he had done unto you. And for a moment, you’re in control. Your lips are upon his neck, grazing and grinding at his flesh, and your hands are removing his trousers, trying to tug them down so that your bare lap may sit upon his.

His neck. Reality tells you it tastes like flesh and sweat. But this trace your fellow descendent has lured you into tells you it tastes how you often dreamed a miracle would. Something dark and sinister, but truly holy and divine all the same. Your tongue, active as a hiss beast in the grass, slithers up towards his jaw as wandering hands between Kurloz’s recently stripped legs, find his unsheathed bulge, and curl their way around it. It’s something akin to sensory overload, and you’re swept away in exotic thrills that come with being able to touch, and taste, and smell and partake in every bit of another person as you let yourself be lost in this most sensational of parties.

Kurloz cups your chin once you get towards his ear and guides your face away, so you’re facing him. You feel your eyelids droop, and your chest heaves, heated breaths slipping from your lips in little puffs. The heaviness of arousal has consumed you, and this momentary pause is already driving you wild. Meanwhile, Kurloz is still smiling calmly, not a single iota of lust in his visage as your fingers stroke the slithering bulge between your fellow descendents legs.

“Tell me, Gamzee.” He purrs softly as he gently begins to finger your nook again, three fingers slipping their way in rather instantaneously. “What sort of things did you enjoy doing with the old man?” You pant, and you want to ask him what sort of stupid question this is, but his smile and his attitude towards pleasing you prevent you from making any sort of snappy comebacks.

You ponder it for a moment. Seconds ago, you knew every last thing you were enjoying in this sexual exchange with Kurloz, and your exchange with your ancestor. And yet, nothing came to mind in this moment. You pant softly before you find yourself fumbling about for the appropriate words. “Big...” you murmur as you shift your weight, your own bulge squirming against your stomach, reminding you that it needs attention as well as everything else. “He was big...” Kurloz’s expression does not change, but he does pull his fingers free from you, and lightly traces the length of your bulge with those same joints, coaxing it outwards like luring a cobra from its basket.

“He was big? Well of course he is. We’ve both had his bulge buried in us, no point in denying that.” Kurloz chuckles quietly, seeming to pay no mind to what you have just reacted to. Your figure stiffened, a hefty groan pumping from your chest as your bulge which had been so delicately urged forward, had been practically smothered by Kurloz’s as the two appendages coiled together. “But what did he do? Not what he is, but what did he do to you?” Kurloz leans in against you, your chest pressed against his as his arms wrap their way around you to lift you up momentarily.

And with a thud you and he are on the floor, the desk chair discarded behind you. Kurloz has himself poised on top of you, showing you how much larger he truly was in comparison. Nowhere near the size of your ancestor, but certainly large enough to make you feel intimidated. The bulges that coiled together were now spiraled, all the way down to the very base, so that the very top of your nooks pressed close together. You were dazed, both from the collision with the floor, and the low, dizzying thuds in your skull from the arousal.

“Tell me, Gamzee.” Kurloz purrs as one hand clamps down on your shoulder, the other one returning to your nook once more, the same three fingers going inside for exploration. His lips at your ear, and his teeth were grazing along the shell of cartilage. “What did he do that you know you’d like more of?” Your eyes glance towards him as best they could, taking in the strange glow of the other Makara’s expression, which still held that genuinely cunning appearance.

“Made me feel small.” You croak quietly, Kurloz’s bulge squeezing yours in a way that brought forth several explosive moans from your gut. “Made me feel like, he was all I motherfuckin’ had. And that I was all he motherfuckin’ had too.”

You feel Kurloz’s lips quirk into a grin, his bulge releasing yours as he pushes himself up a bit, fingers sliding out once again..

“You’d be amazed, brother.” he says. He takes in a very deep breath, as if concentrating intently on something. You begin to ask him what’s going on, but instead of the nearly deafening silence between you both (you swear there’s something ironic about this), your cries of fulfillment is what rings out instead. Kurloz’s hips jerk forward, a bulge of your own color, but not of your possession dives its way inside of you, giving you that sensation of fullness that you had yet to inform Kurloz of enjoying. Nails claw at the floor as Kurloz leans in close, now as he’s buried himself inside of you. His lips grasp yours in a frantic, explosive sort of kiss involving tongues twirling much like your bulges had.

He silences you, and he moves as you’re silenced. Back, forth, back, forth. Momentary pauses of the hips, but not of appendage as his bulge pulses and squirms inside of you, exploring the narrow passage, pressing each of the little switches in you to make you spill violet material on to the floor of Kurloz’s office.

Your arms give in. You give in. Your arms wrap around his neck, holding him close as he makes you feel that smallness. You feel that smallness again, that you recall from your ancestor. When your ancestor took you, he kept you in his arms, despite knowing how much pain a first exchange was causing you. He had whispered quietly to you, despite his fearsome demeanor. He did not want you to struggle or cry. He wished for your first to be something you could look back on and find enjoyable. Kurloz was doing much the same thing. He may not have been holding you like your ancestor had, but his hands had reached towards yours on the ground, and fingers laced with each hand, holding them down, not minding a lick that you were slicing up your knuckles with nails made jagged by scratching at rocky floor tiles beneath you.

Kurloz whispered to you, your legs curling around his, hooking on at his lower thighs, right above the knee, using his body as some sort of leverage as he used you as cushioning. Each little thrust, and each squirm of his bulge brought forth new little cries from within you that you had not thought were possible at first. But with each thrust of his, came gentle, caring words from Kurloz. Words of encouragement. Words that helped with the factor of smallness. Kurloz made you feel small but in a different way than your ancestor had. Your ancestor made you feel dependant on him. But Kurloz? His way was making you feel needed.

And there was something about that. Something about the glow you kept seeing in Kurloz’s eyes as he rolled his hips forward roughly, smiling at you, whispering sweet little notions into your ears before biting on the lobe. There was something pleasant about the smallness that came from the way he grasped your hands tightly while you left another spillage of purple fluid on the floor, better suited in a pail later in your life. And there was something genuinely enjoyable as Kurloz managed to give you a chaste peck on your lips before treating you as a pail of his very own, and letting himself go. A little dirty deed, allowing ones material go inside of another without a receptacle. But what’s a little inner-body nook-pailing between relations?


	8. Chapter 8

Before all of this had occurred, for a very short time, you had a matesprit. You’d often fantasized about sweeping a friend of yours, a young brown blood, off his feet into a lavish union between the both of you. But before you ever had the opportunity to truly realize your feelings for him and confess them, he had slipped off into a relationship with a feisty cerulean blooded chick, whom you were never that fond of. Black? Absolutely not. You just didn’t like her much.

But you did have a matesprit. Just once. Only for a single pailing. And that single pailing is what meant that world to you.

Because for a single night, your moirail was your matesprit.

An act of desperation, but of absolute trust. For a single night, Karkat Vantas was your matesprit.

\---

Karkat opened the door as you were sitting on the pile of cushions on the floor, lying back with your head nearly touching a pile of sweaters accumulated at the bottom. Karkat let the door creak, glancing outside, and you could almost feel the atmosphere change as he barked something at the guest, and closed the door quickly. Your moirail hopped back into the pile and grabbed you by the collar, yanking you up from your lounging position. You looked at him, faintly dizzy from lying upside down, but the look on his face said it all. Something about the nearly white tone of his flesh and the form of his lips as they pursed into a straight line, and the searing red of his eyes as they bore into you. 

You knew what this was.

“They’re here.” he said, as you took note of how his shoulders were beginning to shake. At nine sweeps of age, you and he were so sure that he’d had formed a matespritship by now (his kismesis did not live far away, and that could be easily handled when the Caliginous workers arrived) either with Nepeta or Terezi, but instead, Karkat remained single and alone in the reproduction department known as flushed romance. You reached for his hands and grab them tightly, pulling your moirail into a hug, which he quickly wriggled out of. You try and tell him that it’ll be fine and if he ran then, he’ll survive. You’d always been exempt to pailing, due to your position as a young subjugglator, but your moirail? Not so much.

He pulled back, sitting close to you, with his hands yanked free from yours, having left you to feel somewhat rejected. “I need you.” he said sharply, the corners of his eyes starting to well with bright red, sticky tears of his color. “I need you to break up with me as your moirail. Just for tonight.” he went on, his shoulders shaking again as he stared into his lap where his vacant hands curled into fists. “Just tonight, Gamzee. You’re the only one I can trust to do this. Be my matesprit, just for fucking tonight.”

He reached for you, looking up as the candy-colored tears trickled over flushed cheeks. Arms outstretched, he wrapped them around your shoulders, burying his head into the crook of your neck. You hesitated, taken back by the request as he slid close to you, nearly stradling your lap at this point. Your arms slithered over his back, and you didn’t even need to be in tune with the melodic tremors of fear that come with your color, to know how terrified your now moirail-turned-matesprit was. You felt each shudder as he held on to you, whimpering with terror, as your hands gently stroked along his back.

“Please, Gamzee.” he choked as he glanced up at you, eyes becoming bloodshot as he cried quietly to himself. “Please save my life.”

Knowing full well that a life without a moirail was a lonely one, you leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his, lips pulled into a grin. “Would be all ashamed if you’d asked anyone else, bro.”

He looked at you, a glimmer of hope resonating within his eyes as the words came out of your mouth, as if you were some sort of majestic savior to his existence. In a strange sense, you always had been. You smiled, faintly, nearly playfully, as you cleared your throat, and put on the fakest of authoritative voices.

“Sorry man,” you barked, as if you were a drill sergeant of sorts. “But I can’t be all pale for you no more.” It was a little act, allowing you to incline your head, as you egged Karkat on to respond to you in whatever way he saw fit. Though it took him a moment to understand that you were attempting to be as formal as possible with the temporary shift in quadrants, he complied, looking shocked as if your pale-breakup was completely out of nowhere. “However--” You reached for your now-matesprits hands behind your neck and clasp your hands around them, squeezing them lovingly. “I would be loving to take you on as my matesprit, oh brother of mine.”

You’d never seen him smile so brightly.  
\---

As an adult though, you’ve found yourself a steadier matespritship. With an unlikely figure. There were silent bets being placed around your dwelling about your relationship with your ancestor. Some claimed it was redrom, others nothing at all, others that you were some sort of sex slave of his. But you quietly brushed them all off. Didn’t those motherfuckers know blackrom when they saw it? Your ancestor hated you, and you him. Blackest flames that you’d ever felt ignited for any sort of motherfucker. His existence offended you, as yours offended him. But had it not been for the monstrous son of a bitch, you would not be here, requiting his ebony flame.

Although, at first, he denied any sort of attraction to you. He’d been a funny fucker when he avoided the top of kismesisitude with his own descendent. He’d killed a few people with curiosity rivaling that of a little olive tramp you used to know. It often amused you when you would disappear to wash up after he had treated you as his own fluid receptacle, only to return with fresh coats of paint on the wall from nosy beasts who wanted to know just what it was that you and your ancestor were always doing.

You knew it was blackrom long before he cared to even entertain the notion. You were probably to blame for the rumors. You would tell Kurloz, muted still from his second trial of silence, about how you could taste the hate that your ancestor had for you and your childish ways, to which Kurloz would indicate laughter, and either sign, or transmit dialog into your head, about how your old man claimed he was exempt from quadrants.

Kurloz told you about how he used to have a kismesisitude with your ancestor before you came along, but how about a sweep into it, the both of them realized their hate-affections were being directed elsewhere. It was a mutual breakup, but the air of dislike always seemed to rise whenever the two of them were around each other. But that conversation between the two of you would end when Kurloz leaned in close against you, kissing your cheek with stitched shut lips, his hand sliding between your legs to tease your nook a little bit before he undressed you and took you for his own.

There had always been gossip about the Makara lineage, and those bearing the Capricorn sign, keeping it among the caste. 

Shortly after you had your single night as your moirails matesprit, Kurloz made himself known in your life again, but in a bigger way. He’d just completely his entire trial of silence and you were the first person he wanted to see.

You weren’t sure if it was some secret rite, or something. But you figured that the person a young subjugglator sleeps with before his oath of silence, is the person they want to form a flushed relationship with once their trial is complete.

Or something like that.

After his stitches were removed, and mouth inspected for any form of infection, and the like, Kurloz came to you about a week or so after your fling with your moirail and pulled you aside. Many of the younger trolls in the convent seemed to walk past him, hiding smiles of their own, something of admirers of Kurloz since his initiation as an adult subjugglator.

You couldn’t say it was the happiest of encounters, as you felt mildly exposed around him. He’d seen parts of you that only your ancestor and Karkat had seen, and he’d been nearly as intimate with you as you had been with your moirail. But he seemed to be content himself being around you. You were something he had his eye on.

He got you alone, waiting for the crowds to die down after his final ceremony. He would have a sweep to recover before he went in for the next Silencing, and he intended to make the most of you. Er, it.

Kurloz’s eyes were always glowing. There was a shimmer to them that you had learned by now was a form of his personal touch to chuckle voodoos, and he used them shamelessly, on everyone. It’s why he was always having flings before his initiation. And it was why he was so obsessed with the thought of you. You weren’t affected the same way by his eyes as others were. Others were prone to losing their mind when Kurloz’s eyes glowed strongly, others did his dirty work. But you did something no one else did. You were always honest when the glow strengthened. His voodoos made you talk.

So when he got you alone, the auditorium emptied out, save for the pair of Makaras, Kurloz backed you into one of the pillars of the arena, holding you against it. Hands upon your hips, he kept you in position, a weakened, but eager jaw motioning slowly against your jawline.

“Been waiting a sweep to be the one to make you really sing again.” he purred. “I trust the old man didn’t break you too hard. Would be ashame if I was left nothing but a vacant cavern and the crackling whispers of an elderly swine trying to converse with Her Lady Condesce.”

You weren’t sure what he meant, but he certainly did.

\---

Karkat had seemed the slightest bit uneasy as he started to remove his shirt, bearing the symbol of Cancer, discarding it on the floor to collect with the other sweaters of the pile. He’d never been one to be thin, neither was he one to be very hefty either. There was a slight rolling of flesh at the bottom of his stomach where his flesh met with the top seam of his pants, making him seem just a bit heavier than he actually was. Karkat certainly wasn’t fit, but at least seeing that he had a little bit of weight packed on the bottom of his stomach was at least something of a relief for you. You noted that at least your best friend had enough to eat.

You were still a novice in the intimacy department, but not as much as you had been a few sweeps prior. You knew what felt good, what didn’t, what switches to hit with others to set them off. You didn’t know how much Karkat had done himself. You and he during your younger sweeps had fooled around a bit, but nothing too extreme. Just out of curiosity.

Karkat’s hands were shaking as he started to unfasten his pants, trying to remember how to use his fingers in order to slide the button from its hole. A smile managed to find its way on your lips and you grasped his hand, ceasing the fumbling around.

“Ain’t gonna be enjoyable if you’re nervous, and rushin’ shit.” You said to him your fingers closing around his hand, giving a gentle squeeze in order to try and relax him. “I know you’re scared--”

“They’ll fucking kill me!” Karkat shouted at you, panic striking him and his face as he paled, hand squeezing back on yours.

“Yeah, ain’t gotta be tellin’ me twice, bro.” you said as you guided his arms away from the top of the pants, and instead, pulled him close, having him stradle your lap, much like you had done with Kurloz a while back. “Gimmie that motherfuckin’ relaxation that I know you can be ignitin’ in me. I know you’ve got it in you to get your zen goin’ with me.” You smiled at him, your face paint accentuating your expression, hoping that he might see how calm you were, and try to follow suit. It would take a moment of frantic sputtering and stammering, and trying to reason with you that this was a horrible idea, and he was sorry that he ever suggested the idea, and that it would probably be better if you and he just stayed moirails. To which he proceeded to beat himself up momentarily, because he couldn’t stand the idea of you having to mourn him when he got culled for being an irresponsible nutcase. To which you simply tugged your shirt off and wrapped your arms around his waist to hold him against you. It was a playful little embrace.

And just the thing Karkat needed to relax.

\---

“I kinda gotta be gettin’ back to him.” you say to Kurloz as he uses his freed lips to place the most delicate of disgustingly vibrant kisses along your jaw line. You don’t quite get why he seems to content with taking you here, and right this second.

“Make him wait.” he replies, hand massaging you through the trousers of your uniform. “Motherfucker is all about taking his place at the motherfuckin’ top of the mountain, that he’s not going to be aware of the spiritual bliss that might or might not be transpiring between the two little shits his pailing produced.” He pulled his head from your jawline, recomposing his position as he stared you down, taking note of some differences in your body since he last saw you.

You’ve grown a lot in the past sweep, about half a foot or so. You’ve gotten bigger, muscle mass accumulating on your arms, legs and chest from all the field work you’ve had to do, as well as the insert-number-here amount of kills you’ve had. Your face is showing maturity as you’ve recently escaped the final stages of puberty. You’re sure you’re due for more height and muscle mass, it’s natural for your caste to grow to monstrous sizes, that is if your ancestor is any indication. But Kurloz has too. He’s grown at least a foot, and he’s towering over you more than ever. Your caste is a strange one, there is no denying this.

“Well, I ain’t feelin’ much bliss from a brother right now.” you grunt as you manage to force his hands away, freeing yourself from the slight entrapment. It’s a bit of a shock to Kurloz as you side step him and get behind him instead. Not so much in an intimidating means of threatening him, but moreso to tell him that you just don’t want him macking on you like that. “I got my own sort of shit that’s goin’ down and you just ain’t the kind of shit I need.”

That’s because you were told his story.

While Kurloz had been away during his Silencing, your ancestor confronted you about your fling with him. It was common knowledge among the entire system that you and Kurloz had gotten yourself into a heated little entanglement a while back, and your ancestor wanted clarity from the source. By now you’d learned that lying to your ancestor was just something no one does. He was a fearsome man, and by fearsome, you meant ‘likely to crush your skull if you lied to him.’ So naturally, you told him the truth.

To which he promptly beat your head into what you suspect was marble, of his walls. It was only a few smacks, but there was a not-so-pleasant dribble of indigo on the white walls as you were dropped from your ancestor’s grasp.

He told you that Kurloz was not a stable troll. If you had thought that you, or your ancestor was unstable, Kurloz made the both of you seem like purified saints by comparison. Kurloz was dangerous, and it was only because he was under your ancestor’s guidance and care that he was permitted to live. 

Something had happened when he was younger that resulted in an olive blooded girl whom Kurloz was close to getting horribly injured, while involved in practicing of Kurloz’s voodoos. She was one of the rare few outside of the indigo caste that dabbled in the arts of your religion. To what extent she was harmed, your ancestor wouldn’t say, and you dared not ask Kurloz.

\---  
Pailing your moirail turned matesprit was awkward. It was an exchange that a part of you was glad to be done with. You had been entangled in a sexual embrace with Karkat before, but never before was it because he needed to produce material for the Imperial Drones knocking down his door. So when the color came sloshing out of both of you, collecting itself in the small, tin pail that had been set out to receive the fluid, you quickly, and shamelessly shoved your hand into the bucket to stir its contents. Karkat’s glimmering red needed to be blended with the violet of your own in order for a last ditch effort to make sure the drones would not catch on.

Karkat grimaced as your hand pulled itself out and you shook as much of the fluid as possible off before scrambling to your feet to deliver to the impatient drones waiting outside. You didn’t know the language they spoke, but it came in the form of clicks and hisses, making themselves sound similar to Karkat’s lusus (you wondered briefly if clawbeasts and the drones were the same species, at least somewhere back in time). When you came back in, Karkat was seated in the pile of sweaters, having recently pulled his clothes back on, but the appearance of sex was still apparent about him. His hair was disheveled, clothes hastily yanked back on and twisted in some spots, eyes glassy and dazed from the residual lusty throbbing that was fluttering about in his head and between his legs. But he was smiling, which was always a bonus.

So you sat down next to him, and grasped his hand, squeezing it lightly, with a smile of your own dancing its way over your jawline.

“Bro, I’m afraid we gotta talk.” you said to him, his head turning to you, his expression not wavering in the slightest. “But I’ve been thinkin’ you and me ain’t supposed to be makin’ it as motherfuckin’ matesprits.” There was the faint breath of a laugh from Karkat. “So, could you do me the honor of bein’ my moirail again?”

Needless to say, that quadrant refilled itself faster than their pail did.

\---

Had you know what humans were, and the humor of a human sitcom, you would know what happens to the teenage human male when he sneaks out late to be with his teenage human matesprit. He makes it out of his hive no problem, climbs out the window, along the roof and down a tree before he makes his way to his matesprit’s hive for the evening. Getting back, he figures it is safe to use the main entrance since it is late enough, but when he opens the door, his human lusus is waiting for him in the survival chamber (or was the term living room?) on the most comfortable of chairs, holding a pipe. The human lusus would say in which ever vernacular of tongues they speak “Wiggler, we need to have a talk.”

What you endured upon returning back to your chamber after your fling with your moirail was a very similar situation, except you hadn’t snuck out. Your ancestor had given you his permission to spend time with your moirail, as long as you returned by a certain time. So upon entering your quarters, you turned to find yourself face to face with your ancestor, sitting on the ground, his eyes narrowed, as if you had wronged him in some way.

You greeted him quietly with a low “Hey man.” as you started to make your way to your own block, only for your ancestor to grab your leg as you began to walk past him. He did not look up at you right away, but you felt his eyes as they began to glance in your direction.

“You stink of pailing.” he said lowly, giving your leg a tug, making you stumble forward, causing you to fall, using your hands to break your fall upon landing. “I thought you had a moirail, not a matesprit.”

“Yeah, and ain’t it common for moirails to get their bang on ‘ccasionally?” you grunted to him as you composed yourself and got back to your feet, standing at attention in case your ancestor demanded some sort of obedience from you.

“Pale fucks do not smell the same way as red fucks.” he snarled as he got to his feet, showing off his size, making you glad you stood at attention before he rose. “Are you vacillating with the little mutant shit?”

You considered it a moment, as you gazed upwards at your ancestor. The way his mane of hair fanned out over his shoulders and back almost gave him the appearance of an infuriated pouncebeast, but you would never say that to him.  
“Thinkin’ it was a one time thing, brother.” you responded to him, arms remaining firm at your side, despite wanting to grasp the doorknob behind you and vanish into your block for the remainder of the evening.

“See to it that it is.” he snorted as he turned his back to you, going back to his seated position. “If you were being a life saver for the freak, see to it that this is the only time. The next time the drones come, let them cull the abomination. He is not your responsibility.”

You nod to him, not willing to continue the conversation, as you grasp the doorknob and slip into your block for a much needed reprieve.

Even if your ancestor insisted that you were not responsible for Karkat.

You felt that you were. Just as Karkat was responsible for you.

And that’s how it would remain, up until the day he died.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Attention: I am considering changing the name of this fic. When I first made it as a one shot, Leash was an appropriate title, but I am not so sure anymore. Should I change it to something more appropriate? (I was thinking of calling it Family Matters) Or should I keep the name since after all...this is Chapter 9.
> 
> Also warning for dubcon in this chapter.

Kurloz lays you down on the softness that is his pile, composed of voodoo dolls, and decorative pillows. He sees to it that you’re comfortable as he draws his hand over your cheek and lowers it to your chest, bare and adorned with several scars, of battles you don’t quite remember. Kurloz seems completely pleased to watch your fingers curl around the dangling trim of one of the throw pillows, while he spreads apart your legs, and settles himself between them. An arm slides under your thigh, scooping you up into an elevated position as he leans forward, kissing along your stomach while fingers from a formerly unoccupied hand travel up along your hip bones, flesh trickling to life with each stroke. You’re undressed. So is he.

And so there is a pail, placed at the bottom of the pile.

Kurloz’s hands pull from you and grasp your hands away from the pillows, tangling the joints tightly as he holds on to you. It’s just a tiny bit of leverage, and that’s all he needs to help him thrust into you. Your body arches neatly into place on the pile as you grunt out in surprise. Kurloz is not as large as your ancestor, but he certainly handles himself as if he was. He whispers to you, shooshing, and kissing along your neck as he remains buried in you.

“Need you,” he purrs softly, holding his weight against you as his bulge thrashes in your nook. “Need you, bad.” There’s the faintest flicker of a grunt in his voice as his hips roll forward, breath caught in his throat as he holds his position. He feels it, and you feel it too--the tip of his bulge has pushed itself into forbidden territory. Not so much forbidden actually, as old. It’s a part of a trolls body that generally...trolls used to use for reproduction. A long time ago, before a mother grub was introduced to make gestation periods shorter, trolls made their own young. There was something known as “parents” to young grubs, and they would be cared for by the ones who laid their eggs. But few trolls ever reproduce that way anymore. Mostly highbloods. Higher than you.

After your matespritship with Kurloz was formed, he frequently wanted to test you out. See if you were one of the highbloods that was capable of it. He had the suspicion that you were, but whenever he pushed into the inert material sac inside you, you always pushed him off. You didn’t want to pail. Not that way. He was usually pretty compliant, but on occasion, he would insist, and his bulge would break the temporary membrane that closed the material sac from being entered, and there would always be a gush of violet from you. That’s why the pail was always there. Material sacs are close to the surface of ones abdomen, so when entered, it’s easy to see. It’s always visible, as bulges usually can press against the top of the sac, and there would be an indentation of the appendage on your stomach as it would move around. It was always surreal, but it always fascinated you.

That’s just what was happening today. Kurloz had pushed his weight so he was as far inside of you as he could possibly get. Your ancestor deliberately would avoid going that deep. You knew he wanted to. But there was always that risk of him damaging you too much, to make you un-fuckable. Kurloz wasn’t nearly his size, but he was still large enough to break through without harming you much. It was a kink for some trolls, and as you got older--you saw why. As a troll gets older, and you are no different, they being to release pheromones as they age, indicating a demand for deeper penetration for reproductive purposes. And for some trolls, particularly your caste, those pheromones are addictive.

But this would be later in your life.

For now, you’re studying. Of all things, you are studying.

You are eight sweeps old, and you are studying up on the various rites of passage that are needed by the subjugglators in order to take their position among the elites. Everyone can do it a different way. Kurloz has been doing his best to tell you about his options, and why he chose Spiritual Silence, but you have not been able to understand it all. He signs to you, and you try to understand but more often than not, none of it makes any sense, and it always winds up with you lightly kissing his sewn shut lips, as he grabbed your hands. He’d always slide up close, to the point where it would have been uncomfortable if you weren’t so close with him. You suspect he’s got a red crush on you.

Actually you’re convinced he does.

More than convinced actually. The concern he shows for you as you contemplate different methods of induction to being a subjugglator. A number of methods you’ve seen were interesting to you, but Kurloz merely would grab your hand and give you what you liked to call the “Please don’t, I’m scared for you.” looks.

But you deny his affections. You’ve heard about Kurloz’s frequent flings before you came along. You don’t trust him, and you don’t feel for him in that way. Of course, you don’t mind the occasional flings, but they never really compared to that first time you had with him.

It’s that thing about your lineage and oral fixations. It always seemed like Kurloz wanted to open his mouth and have some fun with it, but alas, rites of passage are always difficult and limiting. The one you’ve found that you think is the most appropriate for you involves something about putting lowbloods in their place. Not really something you believe in, but the process seems to be something you can easily see yourself enduring.

When Kurloz left to truly immerse himself in silence, you remember visiting your moirail that day. You wanted to be around him so that you might be able to review your own choices of passage for when you got older. His message on repeat was essentially “Don’t make the passage. You’re needed out here, not locked away in that cult.”

And as much as you wanted to listen to him, you had an obligation to fulfill.

You didn’t like to upset your ancestor, but it happened more often than you liked. He scared you, there was no shame in admitting that. Despite how little the chucklevoodoos of others affected you, his were always whirring at high speed, and you always felt them, and they always chilled you to the core. That’s how it works with some highbloods. They never turn off their fear mechanisms. Your ancestor is a professional.

You do your best to not offend him, and stay on his good side. But it would appear that his good side is a fine line, and you had to stay on your toes at all times, lest you cross it. But there was one thing that was ridiculously clear about your relationship. Although you would not admit it to anyone but yourself.

You were waning caliginous for him.

His very presence made your blood boil, and from time to time, you would deliberately cross that line. You would deliberately drive him insane, and then throw it in his face about the taboo that was culling or harming ones descendant. You shoved it in his face. You made him furious just by being a complete brat.

It was only on occasion that you would let your self-warranted douchebaggery rise to the surface. You would make it seem like he was imagining things. You would act up for a day or two at a time, and then like that, go back to behaving. It drove him insane, and that’s exactly what you wanted.

You don’t think he ever suspected your private black crush. But Kurloz certainly did. He would sign to you in the broken phrases that you didn’t fully understand, but he would eventually write down on paper for you “YOU are SHOOTING spades FOR him. :o)”

It was true. But it remained a secret between you and Kurloz. You were grateful for his silence. Because by the time the stitching came off, everyone seemed to know about your black crush.

Except for your ancestor.

At least that was the case until he had had enough of your attitude, and decided to call you out on it.

You had said something to him along the lines of “At least lowbloods don’t see me as a monster.” before you decided to leave your ancestor’s chamber. You waved him off, dismissing him as if he was beneath you. And instead of you walking out of the room scotch-free, the door in front of you slammed and your ancestor was at your back. A hand upon your skull, and the heavy oak of the wood door against your entire body was an indication that he had had enough.

He pushed you against the door, leaning towards your ear and growling heavily. His breath from time to time had an unbearable stench, and this was one of those days as his mouth practically engulfed your entire ear. It was a sticky, saliva drenched mess, making you shudder and tremble as his entire weight began to smother you. Had it not been for the corridor leading to his chamber, you were positive that others would have heard the thunking against the door as he held you in place.

“Boy, I’ve had just about e-motherfucking-nough of you treating me like scum.” he growled, nails scraping along your scalp to allow welds to surface and even some to sprinkle your hair line with dots of blood. It struck you as he held you tight. “And you best believe boy, there’s hell to pay. For all the motherfuckin’ degredation you’ve been shoving me into.” His arm jerked back, pulling you away by the roots of your hair, small chunks being torn free from the flesh by their roots.

You actually find yourself silently begging for help.

You choked out under your breath, “Oh my god, please help me...” But the plea fell on not only deaf ears, but none at all. Your ancestor had not only not heard you, but he flat out did not care even if he had heard your plea for help. With a heavy thud, he sat down on the floor, and pulled you on to his lap, paying no mind to the holes and tears being made in your pants as he ripped them free from your legs. You struggled, trying to pull away from him, not wanting this to go where it was going. Not really up for the humiliation that would come from it all. Everyone would know the next day what happened, and you weren’t up for it.

But every instance where you had the upper hand, your ancestor would wrap one of his arms around your torso, and his jaw would sink down into your ear. Unless you were content with losing an ear, you stopped moving, allowing him to bloody you up all he damn well pleased. Pants came off, ripped to pieces. Shirt and vest were yanked free from your body and tossed away. His opened his trousers, a bulge almost the length of your arm thrashing about sliding along your inner thigh.

You were situated on his lap, back to his chest while his jaws gnashed away at your ear, neck and shoulders. It wouldn’t be long before blood was pasted upon your chest, drenching you along with your own sweat as your legs were forced open, a half-unsheathed bulge not even fully aware of the situation being yanked about by the bulge of your ancestor. The other length grinded against your nook, causing a pleasantly vile slickness to build itself up. You swore, loudly and without restraint as you felt the throbbing pressure of your ancestor’s overwhelming voodoos invading your skull. You reacted. Against your will of course. Your body went stiff, muscles refusing to obey your commands as fear rippled through each and every one of your nerves. You were not to be reactionary. You were to be compliant. 

Your ancestor’s bulge squeezed yours, causing what you suspected to be pain, to send jolts of electricity to the base of your skull, leaving you to hiss from discomfort. But with each squeeze, he would grind against you, turning the pain from constricting you into an oddly masochistic experience. You would learn later in life that this was deliberate. He wanted you to associate his abuse with enjoyment, and you would. But not yet. It would be a gradual process.

Your head slammed back, crashing into his chest as the friction was slowly becoming something of an unbearable force. Even with your trickle of early-produced genetic fluid to soften the blows. Your ancestor would only chuckle at you as you swore and threw your verbal tantrum, while your body loved each and every second of the inappropriately approached black romance. Another unappreciated grind from your ancestor’s bulge and another snarl from you.

“Go choke on a bulge, you disgusting mess of motherfuckin bile.” You hissed to him, trying to force yourself away from him, one hand finding its way to your throat. There would be no pressure from him, but he would lean in to whisper to you. He wanted you to associate whispering with arousal. He wanted you to do many things.

“You’re the only one among us who ever has, and ever will.” His palm enclosed around you as his bulge relented from torturing the sensitive folds of flesh of your nook, vanishing somewhere behind you instead. “Tell me, boy, would you rather me just pail the life out of you now, or shall this be a long extended kismesisitude with multiple encounters and multiple instances of you slowly succumbing to my motherfuckin’ will?”

You don’t respond to him, but you try and bite down on his hand, even though it’s just out of reach for your jaw. “Who said I was black for you, motherfucker?” you growled, trying to pull free from the psychic grasp he had on your muscles.

“It’s been written on your motherfuckin’ face for at least a sweep, boy.” he chuckled, making you feel the throb of the voodoos surfacing again. “I think we’ll extended this. Drag out your hatred for me. Might be fun in the long run, won’t it, little clown?”

To this you didn’t respond. Even if you wanted to, your ancestor had pulled you into a situation that you had never quite expected yourself to endure. His bulge had vanished from rubbing against your nook, that was true. But if had slid somewhere else, and it was pushing into another spot. You merely wailed, body momentarily breaking free from his grasp as you figured out his plans. His bulge had managed to find your waste chute, and was forcing his way in there, having taken globules of your genetic fluid as a lubricant so that he might force his way into you.

“MOTHERFUCKIN’ NOOK FILETIN’ SHITSTAIN.” you screamed as your body rebeled to this intrusion, allowing for your ancestor to do nothing but laugh at your protest. You felt as each inch of him forced itself deeper inside of you, the thickness growing every few, until you were sure he had fully buried himself in you. You didn’t want to look, but he seemed pleased with his work, just by the way he laughed at your plight. Intruding into ones nook is one thing, nooks are prepared for bulges to slide their ways inside. But waste chutes are not as accustomed to it, but unlike nooks, they can take things much longer, but certainly never things as wide as your ancestors bulge. He wouldn’t be able to thrust much in you without harming both of you. So instead of actually fucking you, he would just grunt and shift his hips now and then. And just to make sure you got off, his hand ran over your thighs and up to your nook, still sensitive and still alert to the presence of touch. He would roughly run his fingers over the folds, reveling in the little sputters of fluid that would dribble on to him before he coaxed your legs open further so that he might be able to slide a finger or two inside.  
One finger pushed its way inside of you, slowly pumping in and out, slowly coating itself with violet before he would add another in, much to your dislike.

“Never thought my little clown would be oh spade of mine.” he chuckled as both of his fingers wriggled inside of you in one spot, and his bulge pulsed in another. You growled a stammering of “Hate you.” under your breath, prompting a third finger, and another laugh from your ancestor. 

To which, he simply replied: “Yes, I know.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha. Let's see if people hate this chapter.

You are now an age that cannot be compared to in Earth “years”. You are twenty-four sweeps of age. To a human, this is roughly the equivalent of fifty-two “years”. You however, do not show the signs of age. You appear to be the equivalent of twenty-two years of age. As a highblood. You have growth spurts quickly in youth, and come either twenty-three or twenty-four sweeps, your aging slows to a halt. It would be another twenty sweeps before you showed any other indication of aging.

Your caste typically lives between six hundred and eight hundred sweeps.

You recently found that your ancestor was four hundred and thirteen sweeps when he found you.

And to a human, he would appear to be no older than forty “years.”

It was safe to assume your ancestor had at least another four hundred sweeps on him.

You are twenty-four sweeps of age, Kurloz is thirty sweeps. Neither of you have aged much. A little bit of weathering on your jaw, and more instances of facial hair, but neither of you have aged much since your youth.

That’s nonsense. You’re still in your youth and will be considered to be in your youth until you reach nearly three hundred. 

Kurloz has been an official subjugglator for the past two sweeps, now. And you are about to take your final step.

At the age of fourteen, shortly after the death of your moirail, you committed yourself to your work. Without him there to tug on your reins and keep you from wandering astray, you were now able to live the life your caste demanded of you. And that was among the subjugglating elite.

You opted for your entrance to the ranks to be that of asserting your dominance as a high subjugglator on the lower castes. Your religion was not as exclusive as you had made it out do be during your wrigglerhood. It was open to all castes. But only the highest of colors were allowed to be among the ranking elites that dictated the religion.

And your rite of passage was to exterminate anyone beneath that of a cerulean blood that dared try and enter the ranks of a Phantasmic Priest.

And that troll to be exterminated was Alntak Mitaka.

No, it was not so much his attempt at becoming a priest that required you to take action. It was his filthy lies.

For he was nowhere near the highest colors required to enter. Alntak was shit blood. Murky, brown filth that made other shades of brown look delectable. Alntak was sludge. And he lied about this sludge until the day he was being inducted. How it went so long, with him not being discovered, no one could quite tell. But it would be your job to do away with him.

Alntak was a pathetic thing. You think he could have really been something if he hadn’t lied about his color for so long. He was scrawny, but he was talented, and like everyone, he had a story to tell.

Alntak, like any lowblood, didn’t live easily. He had a lusus, or better yet, a parasite. The creature was something similar to a leech, but the best way you could describe it...was a tick. Once Alntak pupated out of his grub state, his lusus affixed itself to the back of his neck. Permanently. Like any tick, its diet consists of blood, and it primarily lived off of Alntak’s sludge blood. At least until he got older, and the lusus on the back of his neck began to weaken and attack Alntak. His blood was just not suiting his lusus any longer, and thus something else was needed instead.

The blood of other castes. 

But Alntak had always been a passive person. Only killed others if he was in danger. If his life depended on it. And as it would turn out. His life did depend on it. For whenever he reached to the back of his neck to remove his lusus, it would merely bite down harder, and exhaust Alntak. So the only solution was to obtain the blood of others.

For a while, Alntak lied, told people he was a rainbow drinker, and he needed it to sustain himself. It was true, and in a sense, he nearly was a rainbow drinker of a different accord. But he would be found with bodies of other trolls, lower and higher than himself, feeding off of them.

Until it became too much. Somewhere down the road he invested himself in studying subjugglator culture, and learned of how the elites were able to paint and collect the blood of all castes. Including Her Imperious Condescension. With her permission of course.

And he got the wise idea to ignore the code of the cult, and force his way in.

And it was your job to kill the bastard.

Somehow, you are not sure how, Alntak got the blood of highbloods and managed to use that blood as his means of showing his color. You never understood it. You never knew what it was that he did. He would only smile at you shyly, and tell you that it was his secret. You supposed you were better of not knowing at all.

Alntak didn’t even seem like a highblood. He was shy, quiet, and he always seemed to be thinking intensely about something. More often than not, you suspected it was a way for him to get out of his prison cell. But with constant watch, it would appear that every plan of his would fail.  
The only reason you knew so much about him, was because of your training as a sort of corrections officer. That’s the branch of subjugglators you would be joining. You were required to make friends with him. Or something to that extent. So that he would be comfortable around the person who would be killing him. Put his mind at ease. Sure, yourcaste was violent in nature, but that didn’t mean they were insensitive. Or perhaps they were.

When you first met Alntak, you walked into his cell and spoke bluntly to him.

“Hey my sludge blooded brother, I’m the motherfucker who’s going to kill you.”

You made your intentions clear. As well as the fact you would not be killing him for a while now.

Now, if your caste were to be cruel, they would have sent you into him, not told you a word of their plans to have you kill him. Force you to befriend him (which, knowing your nature, would have happened easily) and then break it to you without any warning that you were to kill him.

That would be cruel.

But that was not the case. In this case, you walked in on Alntak and sat down, told him the truth. And he seemed grateful. Said something along the lines of how he always hoped that when he died, he would hope he would know the killer and their motive. So that he might not worry in the afterlife. You only laughed, told him that the afterlife is going to be causing a bunch of problems for him. Messiahs got their own judgement on his wicked spirit.

But he trusted you. Knowing that you would be the one to kill him in about a sweeps time, he told you all there was to know about him. Save for how he snuck past those in power to reach the high ranks of your cult. That was one of his secrets. But you opted to not push him about that. You were more intent on wanting to just...make him comfortable. 

But yet, when the time came to do the deed.

You found yourself in a bit of a state. Sure, all the sweeps of education had been piled on to you, and the lessons learned were deeply ingrained into your skull. But there was a problem here. After a sweep of bringing comfort to poor Alntak, something happened along the way.

You became pale.

At least, you thought you did.

And you realized that this was the goal of this all. This was why you were required to get to know him so well before killing him. It was not a test for Alntak, but a test for you. You were being manipulated into having pale feelings for a doomed lowblood. And like that, you were reliving your last days with Karkat Vantas.  
It was certainly a test. To see how you would handle being sucked into pale romance with a lowblood, doomed to face death long before you ever would. You knew the pain of losing a moirail. You knew the sting of holding their body in their arms shortly after life was extinguished. You knew the throb and dull ache in your chest, knowing you would never be able to bring them happiness, or receive the same from them. You knew the numbing quakes of your body as realized just how empty life would be--

You swung your arms down, a large axe cracking into the back of Alntak’s skull, splatters of murky, umber blood squirting at you, sticking to your uniform as you released the weapon. Alntak fell down to the ground with a thud, and the auditorium roared.

Before Alntak’s body could even be collected and cleared from the stadium, you departed. An angry rush gushing through you as you let it settle in just how pale you had become for Alntak, and just how sickening it was that you had to bring yourself to do such a thing to him.

As you left, you were intercepted, your ancestor blocking your way. All nine feet of him towered in the corridor, a truly impassable roadblock. You, with your nearly seven feet still were something of an ant in comparison to him.

“Get out of my fucking way, nookstain.” you growled at him as he had the laziest of smirks ghosting on his lips. “I ain’t in any motherfuckin’ mood to deal with you.”

His arms were crossed over his chest as it moved from the trembles of a laugh rumbling from the large trolls abdomen. “You figured it out, didn’t you, boy?” he chuckled, refusing to move away from your exit as you tried to maneuver around him.

“Yeah, go fuck yourself,” you grumbled to him, trying to squeeze between his waist and the wall to try and get away. But his hand grasped your shoulder and pulled you back with bruising force so that you might not get far from him. “You all did that on motherfuckin’ purpose. Another attempted at showin’ me how moiraillegiance can all be a motherfuckin’ curse--”

Your ancestor grasped you by both shoulders, finally forming a gap in the hallway as he pushed you into the wall to try and freeze your position. “Wasn’t intended, little clown.” he snarled, leaning in agonizingly close to you, the warmth of his breath sticking to your face, making it feel as if your makeup was running. “But certainly a good lesson for you to learn.” You craned your neck backwards, trying to pull away from the cloud of halitosis so that you might not join Alntak in the afterlife, killed by stench. “How long you been pale for him? The whole sweep? Half? Maybe a few weeks.” He forced his face towards your skin, whether you were pulling away or not. He inhaled, sniffing your flesh, the low chuckle of his voice masked by his breathing. “Or maybe you realized it, just before you dropped the axe.” 

“Fuck off, old man.” you growled, pushing at him lightly, but he relented and released you anyways. You made your way past him and started down the hall. His voice boomed after you.  
“Moiraillegiance makes you weak, boy!” he shouted. “A pale subjugglator is a dead one!”

You were tempted to snap at him. You wanted to yell at him about why he permitted you to have Karkat. But you didn’t want to start anything more with him.

Moiraillegiance scared you now.

Ten sweeps after Karkat’s passing, and you still considered yourself taken in that department. Even if Karkat could never kick you awake again, and pull you into his arms.

You didn’t like the idea of going pale for someone else. And even if you did, you couldn’t bare to imagine losing them again.

Moiraillegiance really did scare you.

You found safety in something else after you walked out of the corridor. Kurloz was waiting for you, lips pulled into a smile. After his final Silencing, he had tattoos done on his flesh to mimic the look of stitches on his lips, a symbolic measure. A sweep from now, you would get blots of various colors tattooed on to your hands and wrists as a sign of your method of induction.

“You alright?” Kurloz asked when you came out, hands placing themselves upon your cheeks, paying no mind to the makeup that was no doubt getting on his palms. “Saw you barge out like the world was ending, brother.” You nodded, didn’t say much, but Kurloz could read you rather well.

You and he had become matesprits a while back, you don’t remember exactly what the circumstances, but it came about the time when Kurloz’s own moirail, a goofy yellow-blood with a tiny bit of a temper, passed on. You knew it was a good time to sit down with him, especially since you understood the pain of losing that quadrant. It would seem that most of your life from this point on would be about moiraillegiance and lack thereof. 

“Just got myself a killer motherfuckin’ headache. All bringin’ about memories that I ain’t wanting to focus on right now.” you grumbled this softly under your breath as Kurloz took you aside. Other subjugglator youths, all between seven and nine sweeps or so, were coming down to greet you, but Kurloz waved them off, telling them they would need to come back another time, and that you could see everyone tomorrow if it was that urgent. You managed to smile at most of them. Some were under your protection, and it was your job to help them prepare for their inductions in a few sweeps. Some seemed disappointed, but the older ones understood, bringing the young ones off to go back to their own quarters.

“Tell me,” Kurloz said, as he brought you down a separate hallway, away from the crowds where he stopped you both at an elixir dispenser. “Pick your poison, you’re all looking like you could use yourself a bit of a recharge.”  
“Redpop.” you grumbled as you poised yourself against the wall as two bottles came rolling out of the machine, Redpop for you, Pineapple for Kurloz.

“Why’d you run out like that?” Kurloz asked you as he cracked open his bottle, taking a large swig of the magical potion that was Faygo. You took a gulp of your own drink, shoulders heaving upwards.

“I don’t even know if I can be talkin’ about that jazz.” you replied, your body sagging against the wall. “Just panicked or somethin’.” You know what it really was. You know it was the fear of closeness. But you’re not going to worry Kurloz like that. “Just gotta get my mind off things for a couple of nights, you know?”

Kurloz twists the cap back on to his bottle, and takes your handle. Your caste doesn’t usually outwardly show affection. But he does, and no one bothers to stop him. “Come on,” he says as he guides you further down the hallway. “I know something you can do.”

At first, you thought he wanted to pail you again. Happened pretty regularly between the both of you, to the point where sometimes it felt strange being clothed next to one another.

But that would be later, instead Kurloz had something else planned.

He brought you to the Brooding Caverns.

It was that time of year where the surviving grubs were making their way out of the caverns to be selected by a lusus, and in the past few sweeps, you had wondered about the likelihood of any of your own descendents surviving.

So you and Kurloz sat out by the caverns as grub after grub made their way out, all of different colors and hues. You were impressed to actually see a few Tyrian blooded ones make their way out...

And most importantly, a little, bright red grub squirming its way from the caverns with swirling horns, with the slightest limp. And Kurloz saw your eyes light up.

“Karkat was a mutant, right?” he said as he watched your eyes follow along the little grub. You gave a faint nod, and stood up from your position on the ground. “Whoa, Gam, you can’t be goin’ up there and interruptin’ that. Not our place.” You waved your arm at Kurloz, trying to get him to be quiet.

If you didn’t bring that grub to a lusus, it would die.

You weren’t sure about it yourself, but you were convinced that in some way, this little grub was of Karkat’s lineage, and there was no way you were going to let it end. So upon silencing your matesprit, you crept closer to the caverns, avoiding any grubs that might still be wiggling their way out of the cave. In the distance you heard Kurloz shouting at you to get away from them, lest an angry lusus get in your way.

But you managed, and settled yourself in front of the small red grub which looked up at you in confusion. You were a great big troll, sitting in a field of grubs, and this tiny little thing had just hatched, and here you were. Blocking its path. You carefully lowered your hand, trying to let the tiny little thing sniff you, but instead, you were greeted with sharp, infant grub teeth, sinking into your thumb.

“That’s alright, tiny brother.” you told the grub. “I was prepared for that.” The little grub didn’t relent, but you did manage to use your other hand to lightly stroke its head, and the tiny pile of fuzzy fibers that would turn into its hair one day. It screed and clicked at you a bit in frustration until it quietly began to purr from the light pets you were delivering, and its jaw relented and let go of your thumb. You took note of the creature. Bright red body, indicating its color, but horns, somewhat large for its size, almost bleat-beast in style.

And it struck you.

This was your grub too.

Not only did it have the color of your long since passed moirail, but its face (at least as far as you could tell) mimicked yours, and its horns were something similar as well. Your DNA went into this little thing, and so did your moirails. This tiny grub that you were now risking to pick up and hold while it relaxed towards your petting, was the result of a one-night matespritship you had with your moirail over 14 sweeps earlier.

And despite not sharing your color, it brought something very real to the forefront of your mind.

You had a descendant.


	11. Chapter 11

You don’t remember when, but one time, many sweeps ago: you dumped your moirail. You remember why, or at least you think you do. Working as a novice subjugglator was difficult. It was tiring and a part of you reasoned that you’d probably wind up harming him, resulting either in a huge dent in your relationship, or his death. Even with your sound logic, it didn’t exactly have the best turn of events following the ended relationship.

If you hadn’t known better, you would have suspected for the afternoon of your breakup, you and he were shooting spades for one another. Fists connected with jaws, teeth sunk into shoulders, splatterings of red and indigo dotted the clothing of both of you. At one point, you’d even managed to pin him to the ground, forcing your hips to grind against his, deliberately seeing if maybe this was a caliginous exchange you and he were entangled in. If it hadn’t been for his fist slamming into your jaw and a snarling of “I’m not black for you, dumbass!” as he insisted that even if your unruly ass wasn’t pale any longer, he still would be.

You supposed that you probably were being a shitty moirail. But you know, you were doing this for his safety. You didn’t want him to get any more wrapped up in your life than he was already.

 

When you told Kurloz about this, he didn’t have much of a noticeable reaction. At first. You’d walked into his chambers, dropping your bad on one of the violet, velour lounge chairs. The weapon rolled, smearing some olive and saffron on the fabric before it settled itself down to stillness. You slunk on to the couch next to Kurloz (He was busy reading some journal about new-age rituals.), an arm draping over the back of the couch, behind his back. You were grinning, feeling accomplished with your days work. It wasn’t often that you felt like you did a good job. Your fingers reached up, twirling Kurloz’s hair as it hung over the back of the seat. He’d pulled it into a ponytail today. He’d been doing this somewhat regularly since his hair was really growing out. You suspected it was some sort of tribute to your shared ancestor.

“Hey, my wickedest of brethren.” You purred, leaning in close to him, stealing a quick glance at his reading material. “You’re all bein’ the kind of chill I’m expectin’ from you now.” You chuckled and delivered him a quick kiss on the cheek. His makeup wasn’t totally powdered so you pulled back with a decorating of white on your lips.

“I’ve been finished for a few hours,” he said, seeming to ignore any of the staples of affection you tried to offer him. “You’re interrupting my book.” You frown and you try and invade his space a little further. He’s never been the type to push you away before. However, you look at him more closely. He’s angry.

But being the absolutely insufferable shitstain that you are, you continue to pester him.

“What can you be all feelin’ rageful about that makes fillin’ your head with text more important that me right now?” Normally you don’t take this stance with people. But Kurloz is your exception. He lowered the book, his eyes narrowed from behind his skull-print makeup. They looked more sunken than usual, but you didn’t consider it was an illusion from the makeup. The way his eyes moved made him seem much more sinister than usual.

“You gave up your moirail.” he stated, his tone matter-of-fact, but relatively annoyed. His book sat itself in his lap, hands laying on top of it, pressing down the spine until it became flat. “You’ve all gone ahead and thrown the mercy of our ancestor in his face by leaving your moirail like that.” You shrugged and pulled away from Kurloz, slinking into the corner of the couch with your arms draped over the arm and back of the piece of furniture.

“Weren’t bein’ no good for neither of us, man.” you grumbled, hand raised as you scratched at your ear, almost debating clearing some wax out with your finger nail. You sided against it as you watched Kurloz. His head had turned just slightly, looking at you with complete disdain upon his face.

“You’re a motherfuckin’ idiot, Gamzee.” he snarled, his voice being the only indication of it, his expression not having shiftedin the slightest. “You and I are permitted moirails because without them, we flip our motherfuckin’ shit and start extracting righteous judgement on brothers who don’t be needin’ no judgement!” It was at those last words that Kurloz’s expression finally twisted and contorted. His pupils shrank, then evened out into thin, straight vertical lines, the irises flickering colors as he started you down. His book fell from his lap to the floor with the gentle shuffling of pages. His hands had gripped the sides of the couch, nails shredding at the upholstery as he nearly clawed his way towards you. His palms gripped your wrists, forearms--any part of you he felt he was getting the tightest grasp on--and clenched tightly. “Do you know what we motherfuckin’ become without them?! Without a moirail in our lives?”

Kurloz was right in your face, his eyes still flickering and glowing various colors as his teeth were bared in a hideous roar. You tried to keep face, but with his anger so close, and the strumming of chucklevoodoos beginning to resonate within your skull, you felt muscles slowly vibrating and chruning from anxiety.

“They might motherfuckin’ say that pale subjugglators are dead ones, but you know what, Gam?” His hand had made its way to your throat, nails scraping away layers of flesh, threatening to dig deeper into you. “I say...” His expression momentarily softened although his eyes were glowing and they were still laced with the same horrifying sting to them. Your head throbbed. He was pushing his way into your skull and you started to lose yourself in the hopelessness of fear. The pain of loss and anguish. It was nauseating. You wanted so badly to just spill the contents of your stomach right there and be done with it.

“I say a pale subjugglator is a stable one.” His voice had softened and he pulled away from you. The glowing ceased, Kurloz looking over your face, taking note of something he’d not seen in you before. He’d scared you. He’d never scared you before. But there was a first time for everything.

Kurloz composed himself and he leaned towards the floor to retrieve his book. He flipped through the pages for a moment before finding his lost spot. Then silence came along and he continued to read.

But you’d seen a glimpse of him when his voodoos began to invade your mind. Something about his own pale quadrant.

That yellow blood. That temperamental, most likely unstable yellow blood that Kurloz had been with since, well, his apparent grubhood...he’d passed.

You suddenly felt selfish. More selfish than you ever had felt before.

You and your moirail got back together a few weeks later.

\---

It’s common knowledge in troll society that one does not raise their descendants. It just isn’t done. There may be some interference in the lives of the young when they’re growing up, but it’s nothing along the lines of raising or child-rearing. It’s more along the lines of making sure that one’s lineage is not going to get wiped out because of sheer stupidity.

That was the whole reason why your ancestor interfered in your life so much. Face it. You’re stupid. Not stupid as in, you don’t know anything, but stupid as in definitely needing a guide to keep you from accidentally drowning or choking on food that needed to be chewed a little more. You saw your ancestor more than most trolls would see theirs, so in some respect, you were lucky. Or maybe you weren’t. You never quite figured that one out.

So, as you sat there in the grass with that tiny little mutant grub in your hands, you considered something that hadn’t been done in, well, ages. You considered taking him and going into hiding and raising him all on your own. Maybe on any other occasion you would have. If Kurloz hadn’t been there with you, you very well may have just up and left that moment and never communicated with your caste, the subjugglators or any highbloods ever again. But the stars just weren’t in line for this.

Instead, you just remained seated in the grass with the tiny little thing in your hands. He continued to nibble and crunch on your fingers, as if expecting them to be food, but all you had to offer the little guy was some mashed up crackers from in your pocket. You apologized for the lack of meat that the little creature was most likely craving but you supposed it would do. Even if you knew keeping him was a bad idea, you were at the very least going to find him a lusus. Maybe even one who would be accepting of a high blood coming to check in on the little wiggler as he grew up.

As you pat the grubs head, Kurloz came up to you and took a seat next to you. “So, you and Karkat?” he asked, the lightest twinge of jealousy in his voice. “Didn’t realize you two were ever pailing material--unless, you know, this little brother’s all being some other mysterious red-blood’s kid.”

You managed a laugh at that comment. “Just once, man.” you looked to Kurloz, a fond, almost childish smile on your face. “It was either pale-pailing, or lose my best bro. Swore I told you that.” Your head turned back to the grub who was now deeming you very interesting as he crawled up your shoulder further from Kurloz. Or he was scared of your matesprit. You weren’t sure. Either way, you let him curl up at your shoulder, purring contentedly as you pat his little head.

“You want to keep him?” Kurloz asked, catching your attention as you focus on him. He laughed, seeing the sudden enthusiasm on your face as you nearly lit up at the idea. You wanted to. You really dead. A troll of this color? He’d probably never make it. Or well, he wouldn’t have made it if you didn’t come along.

“Man, I’d love to, but it ain’t bein’ our place to raise him. Wouldn’t even know how to. I ain’t no motherfuckin’ lusus.” You lifted the small grub from your shoulder, the little thing making the slightest fuss as you held him in your hand. Gently you stroked his cheek, shooshing him as you leaned in close. He took a nip at your nose, but you only smiled. “He’s got my horns, but he’s all bein’ Karkat’s color. If it was the other way around I’d be all for takin’ him back with us, tell the old man that we all got another one of the lineage to train.” You laughed, but it was almost forlorn as you pet the grub’s head once more. “Least I can do is find him someone to call a lusus, y’know? Maybe help build his hive.”

Kurloz didn’t need to respond. You were going to find this grub a lusus. You were positive that this tiny little thing was the product of that single night of pailing with your moirail all those sweeps ago. With a color and temperament like Karkat’s, and horns like yours as well as those sleepy eyes you shared...you were convinced. You stood, placing the tiny grub back on your shoulder as you wandered to the location where all the expectant lusii were meeting to select grubs to raise. Sadly, when you approached the location, it seemed like all the remaining lusii had vanished.

Save for one.

There was a clawbeast, but it wasn’t the same kind you were accustomed to. It was large, almost like a tank, a giant shell covering it. And it seemed so timid as you approached it. It was nearly as tall as you were, but it was lengthy and wide, possibly about twelve feet long and seven feet across. But it was so shy. You figured it was because of the bat hanging at your side. Raising one hand to show that you didn’t mean harm, you used the other to reach back and unhook the weapon, letting it fall to the grass below.

“Ain’t here for trouble...” you said quietly as you crouched down towards the beast. It’s cloudy eyes blinked as you lowered yourself to the ground. It came closer sniffing and making a low screeching sound, as if to say it understood, but it would remain wary.  
You reached towards your shoulder and you lifted the grub from you, watching as he whined and curled up again in your hand. “See this little guy?” you said to the armored clawbeast. “Got me some suspicion that I helped make him.” You stroked the tiny grub on the head, watching as it wriggled and snuggled against your hand. The clawbeast watched the grub, a little stunned at the color. “Yeah, I know. He ain’t a normal color. And that’s why I gotta be gettin’ you on board.”

The creature approached you a little more, seeming to be intrigued by the grub.

“The one I pailed with to make him left this word a couple sweeps ago, and he was all I had.” you explained to the creature. “And this little brother here, he’s all got my face and horns, but his color and personality.” You smiled, growing fonder of the grub as you held onto him. “He might not be my color, but he is all meanin’ something special to me, I feel it.” The clawbeast came a little closer, its eyes focused on the grub in your hand. It gave another sniff and then did what you assumed was nod towards you. “I need to be all findin’ someone to raise him. Take care of him. Someone who won’t be all mindin’ a highblood like this poor motherfucker here--” you indicated towards yourself with your free hand. “if he all came to visit to see how he’s doing. Maybe help with building his hive. Help him find his place when he gets older.”

You smiled. You didn’t know what it meant to be a parent. It wasn’t a word that really existed in your culture. But if you had known that word and the meaning behind it, you would have been glad to know that what you were feeling at the moment was the love of a parent. That is if trolls were capable of feeling parental love. Or, maybe they could and it was just a rarity. And you were some kind of mutant, just like your moirail was.

But you didn’t know this, and you didn’t care.

“Can I be trusting you to take care of him?” you asked, feeling that pang of worry. What if the creature declined?

But in a low rumble, there was an echoing boom that you hadn’t heard since you were a small little thing yourself. It resonated in the back of your head. You remember your own lusus making the sound once, and only once. It was a language that was only spoken between a lusus and a grub. It was the reason why to one troll, a lusus might sound as if it were only making noises, but to the wiggler of said lusus, they could understand every word clearly.

This clawbeast was bestowing its knowledge of its language upon the grub in your hand, and in turn, it was giving the language to you.

“I will raise the wiggler.” you head in a crackling, but booming voice, from an unseen mouth. You knew it was coming from the creature, and nowhere else. But its voice had caught both your attention and that of the grub. “He will be known as Aegipa.”

A sigh of relief escaped you as you stepped towards the creature and placed the grub, now known as Aegipa upon its head. “You’ve got all my thanks,” you replied to the creature as you stroked the grubs head one final time. “I just want him to grow up well, y’know?”

As the tiny grub whined from being freed from your hands, you gave it a fond, final smile, the clawbeast backing away slowly. It understand the desire to raise something to the best of its ability. As far as you could tell, that lusus was old. And this grub, Aegipa would probably be the last one it raised. Maybe that was why it accepted you as its ancestor, despite the difference in color. Maybe it could just tell.

You watched as the clawbeast moved away, bringing Aegipa with him before you returned to Kurloz who had since found himself entertaining a pile of indigo grubs who went lusus-less. You smiled as you sat down next to him, about six or seven highblood grubs crawling all over him.

“These yours?” you asked as one with similar horns to your lineage crawled on to your leg. Kurloz merely laughed as he tapped his arms and shoulders, allowing for them all to crawling up his body.

“I think they’re the old man’s.” Kurloz said as he looked at you as he got to his feet. “Actin’ a lot like him when he was our age, or at least from what I heard about him.”

“You going to take them?” you asked as you stood with the other one latched on to you still. “Not like there’s any more lusii over there that seem up for raisin’ themselves a herd of motherfuckin’ highbloods.”

Kurloz looked to the half dozen or so on his arms. “Part of our duty in this caste, man.” he said. “Gotta keep the color goin’ strong.” He shifted his position and seemed to instruct the grubs on his arms to hang on. “What happened with your descendent? You get the munchies?” He might have been joking with you, but you actually felt the jab of horror when he said that.

“Found him a lusus.” you said, petting the head of the new grub in your hands. “Armored clawbeast, trusted me and shit too. Gave me his language so I can come back.” Kurloz grinned, watching you with the other grub in his hands. “He accepted me as his ancestor.”

“You going to go back?” Kurloz asked as he started to walk.

You walked along side him, thinking to yourself for a moment. “If Aegipa’ll let me, yeah.”

“Aegipa?”

“Yeah,” you said. “That’s his name.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god. I almost did something terrible. I considered having the lusus eat the grub, but I didn't.
> 
> Also: Aegipan is one of the supposed names of the seagoat of Capricorn. :D


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Wow. Um. So. Character Death. Big time.  
> Warning??
> 
> Also, I am trying to gauge reader reactions: I am going to be adding a few more instances of Aegipa into this story, but I was wondering if anyone might be interested in a spin off story ABOUT Aegipa and the grubs Kurloz had collected.  
> But uh, further apologies. Apparently there was rumor I was not continuing this fic, trust me guys, this fic is one of my babies. I just need inspiration for it sometimes. Furthermore, I am writing a novel AND I'm a Creative Writing student. So most of my writing is classwork related lately. Sorry about that!

Your name is Karkat Vantas.  
And you died in your moirails arms.

You didn’t tell him when you went to spend the day with him. You didn’t want him to worry. But when you woke up that evening, you felt it all beginning to shut down. You felt sluggish, like you were running out of steam. You called your moirail up, listening for the raspy, exhausted droll of his voice as he spoke. He seemed to be winded, tired from a long night of work. But he was pleased to hear from you. Normally you communicated through online messaging, not telephone. So the rare treat was enjoyed by him, certainly. You asked if he could come over to your place. You needed to see him. You had done your best to suppress the anxiety in your voice, but it came crackling out. You heard the barking of other highbloods in the background, and the hesitancy in Gamzee’s voice. But you and he were each other’s priorities. He told you he could blow off his plans for you. He always would. He made a comment about you and him maybe catching a movie the next day too.

You don’t have the heart to tell him that you probably wouldn’t make it.

So when he shows up you don’t offer him any sass. You don’t mouth off to him for being an hour and a half late (although it kills you to know that you lost an hour of your last day with him). You don’t comment about how he stinks of blood, or his hair’s a mess. In fact, you take his mess as an invitation. You pull him towards your hygiene block and strip him of his clothes which you promptly deliver to the washing receptacle. You’re going to make sure they’re clean when you’re done with him. You get him into the tub of foaming, clean water and start to scrub him down, making sure to use a separate basin for the dirty water. With all the sludge caked on Gamzee’s face and arms, you’d need to refill the tub multiple times if you hadn’t gotten the basin.

A few sweeps earlier, and Gamzee would have protested your bathing of him. But after almost ten sweeps of moiraillegiance, your baths are something he looks forward too. You wring a washcloth out over his head, causing the grease paint on his cheeks to loosen before you begin scrubbing away the ritualistic artwork.

“Can’t you get a better makeup?” you sneer as a thumb brushes over his cheek, white embedding itself in your fingerprints. Gamzee smiles at you and reaches up to your washcloth gripping hand and places his over your own.

“This is what washes off best, and stays longest.” he says, smiling at you, teeth delicately pressing into the flesh beneath his lip. You give his cheeks another scrub and squirt more liquid soap on to the rag before lathering it up and giving his face a few more once-overs to remove all the residue. The rag is then dropped into the basin with the rest of the grey-sludgy water. You’re left to look at Gamzee, sans makeup. Almost fifteen sweeps, and he doesn’t look a day over eight. His ability to age slower shows. With your caste, you look your age. Next to you he still looks like a child, but you suppose you’re okay with that. It makes this exchange as moirails somewhat more endearing.  
You dump shampoo into Gamzee’s hair and you begin to knead your fingers, slowly cracking with each motion. Your age becomes so apparent to you as you realize how much strain simply washing his hair is putting on your joints. Your face shows you as fourteen sweeps, but your bones are saying much older. You work your fingers through his hair as best as you can manage, gently untangling knots and scraping away blood and dirt that’s gotten itself woven into your moirail’s forest of hair. It is your duty to make sure his hair is as clean and pristine as they day he was hatched. You then proceed to dump a bowl of water over his head to rinse away any remaining suds before fishing out the plug on the bathtub drain, letting the water sink away like a miniature whirlpool in the middle of the ocean.

Gamzee looks at you as you watch the water sink away, his skeletal hand reaching towards yours, his fingers lacing and intertwining with your own. Short and stubby meets long and spidery, opposing forces that reflect another aspect of your moiraillegiance. “You doin’ okay, bro?” he asks, his voice sincere and lacking the normal roughness of his highblood mentality. You turn to him, all smiles and grip his hand tightly.

“Better than ever.” You lie, fighting past the facade.

But it’s not a lie. You’ve never been so happy to see him before.

After Gamzee frees himself from the tub you and he find refuse in your respiteblock, the two of you sinking into the depths of your recuperacoon, relishing in the relaxation that comes from sopor slime. Neither of you are dressed for this excursion but both your moiraillegiance as well as the typicality of entering ‘coons undressed is just the norm. Gamzee hasn’t had direct contact with sopor slime in at least six sweeps so the entire sensation for him causes him to slink away into a drug like trance once the two of you become submerged. He’s like a child discovering the wonders of a late-hour sleepover where two children contemplate the meaning of the universe and what it had to offer.

In another universe talks of the gifts of the universe would be all but too common for you and Gamzee.

But that is not this universe.

In this universe you’re lying in the slime, a little stale from lack of use as of late, due to your nature of not sleeping. You figure it must be something age related. You’re not sure. You don’t even know anymore.You’re not even sure you care to know.

As you laze about in the slime, most likely for the very last time, you focus on Gamzee. He’s let his eyes shut, a smile as wide as the damn galaxy plastered on his face. You wonder if for a moment he’s swallowed himself a mouthful of the sludge, but you know he knows better. He’s been clean of sopor for a long time now. Maybe he just forgot how relaxing it was. You roll on to your side, propping yourself up a bit on your elbows. There’s a cracking noise, but it doesn’t hurt. You open your mouth to speak to him, wanting to ask him if he’s alright, but before you can utter a word he’s speaking for you.

“Forgot how motherfuckin’ fine this shit was.” he purrs, arms sprawling out in the slime, one of which hooks around your waist and brings you closer to him. You don’t mind so much and you fit yourself at his side, as if you and he had been separated puzzle pieces. It takes him a minute but he winds up on his side too, arms recoiling and wrapping around your waist to keep you held close. “But me and you? We could be all lyin’ on nails and it’d be just as fine too.” He smiles, his teeth showing. They’re cleaner than you remember. Maybe teeth were something they took a lot of pride in among the subjugglator culture.

As you lay there with him, you discover all these questions you have floating in your head still. There was so much you still didn’t know about Gamzee. And it was too late to ask. 

Your entire life with Gamzee was filled with ups and downs. Sometimes you and he would have terrible god awful fights that left you both drained. You’d actually had several miniature breakups. You’d fight one another for a solid week or so, then one of you would call it off, then a few weeks later you were back together. Actually, ups and downs were putting it lightly. There was space-breaching-rocket-ship-soaring highs and bury-yourself-fifty-feet-below-ground lows. You and Gamzee had always had those instances of not knowing what to do with each other, only to realize that neither of you knew what to do without each other. But such was another quality of moiraillegiance. Extreme differences. Gamzee’s religion, your atheism. His high color, your mutation. His relaxed nature, your high strung one. There were differences that normally would have made both of you seem like you were probably the two worst individuals on the planet for each other. But without each other...Nothing felt right.

Gamzee’s looking at you, violet and gold eyes examining the lines that had slowly been forming on your face. There are forms of a frown around your jaw line, hardened from seemingly always being miserable. His hand from your waist has lifted and begun to trace some of your features.

Maybe he knows you’re dying too.

“Remember when we first became pale?” you ask him, not swatting his hand away and allowing your face to be drawn upon. You pay no mind to the dribbles of slim sticking to your flesh. “I’d never seen you so angry before...”

Gamzee had made his first kills. You were with him at the time. It was just regular hanging out. But Gamzee had gotten a call, his ancestor had a job for him that simply couldn’t wait. He would have to drop everything he was doing. He brought you along thinking it wouldn’t be anything big. He figured as soon as he did this errand you and he could resume your activities without any further snags. That day you saw some things you would much rather blank out of your memory.

Gamzee’s ancestor for instance. The only way you could describe him was a behemoth. He made you feel positively ant-like. Tiny and insignificant. His entire fist was larger than your head. When Gamzee brought you along he snarled at you in complete disgust and turned his back to you to ignore your very presence. You couldn’t hear what he and Gamzee were talking about, you just remember how angry Gamzee got at his ancestor. His voice began to do that fluctuating that it generally did when he was feeling himself slip into sopor withdrawal. He was so angry. So frustrated, but his ancestor only laughed and clasped his hand to his shoulder as he turned from him. He gave you a shove, which probably was considered gentle to him, but it was enough to knock you on your ass.

Gamzee told you to hide as he adjusted the zipper of the vest of his uniform, pulling out a pair of bats from his strife modus. You asked him what for, but he only snapped and told you to make yourself scarce. You ran off. You hid in some bushes, but you didn’t look away. You wish you had.

Gamzee had driven a bat into the skull of not one, but three people who had approached him, their demeanor nonchalant--but glazed over with sinister intention. Gamzee hadn’t even allowed them demeaning banter, and instead had just slammed his bat into their skulls, only stopping to switch weapons. It was a quick shift from bat to battle axe. He sliced through flesh and bone at such a rapid pace, when he was done with them, he was a mess of brown, blue and teal blood, sprayed all over his face and torso. You couldn’t tell much of the bodies in the remaining carnage. Gamzee was fast and brutal. The entire act? Maybe about ten minutes. He hadn’t held back.

But he stood there, utterly silent as he examined the bodies. His shoulders were heaving along with his chest in rhythmic motions. The axe fell from his hand with a thud, the blade slicing through what was the remains of someone’s leg. There was another moment of silence and then Gamzee let out this scream. This scream...you know if you had been next to him instead you would have felt your eardrums explode and then there wouldn’t be a single sound after. It was deafening. It was a horrifying, gruesome honking shriek.

You climbed out of the bushes, scraping your knees through your pants as you scrambled towards him. He’d let out most of the scream by the time you got closer, but your ears continued to ring when you stood by his side. You reached for his shoulders, hands grasping them tightly as you gave him a shake to try and silence him. You screamed at him to calm down, but his rage....Oh god, that rage. It was heartbreaking. You didn’t know exactly the rage, but you could at the very least empathize. Bodies strewn about the ground, their blood on his hands. He’d killed something. You were pretty sure this probably wasn’t his first kill, but maybe it was his first organized one. It seemed like it was his first, to you.

You spoke quietly. Your hands gently rubbing his shoulders and neck, now and then reaching to stroke his cheeks, ignoring the blood splatters, and the several slashes that had appeared on his face. That’s right...one of them had fought back...He was going to need that cleaned up.

You whispered to him. You told him you’d help him calm down. That everything was alright. You were there. You were going to help him. You would stand there, stroking his cheek and patting him as gently as you possibly could. You offered him playful insults; idiot, dumbass, nookwhiffer--all a means of bringing him back to reality.

When he hugged you, arms snaking tightly around your waist, plump with extra fat due to a more sedentary lifestyle, you didn’t mind that you couldn’t breathe well. You just buried your head against his chest and aimed to seek comfort against him, as he did the same against your neck.

 

Gamzee looks at you and smiles. But it’s a sad one. He remembers it. Probably not the same way you do. But he remembers what happened between the two of you. That’s what matters. You shift against him in the slime, hands extended to touch his face. Your fingers stroke his cheek gently. One time, then again, and then your palm pats him, flesh sticky from the slime. He simply watches you as you perform this action, and a moment later, his hands are performing the same gesture to you.

You don’t recall when your eyes closed. But you remember smiling. “Thank you,” you say quietly. “You might be an insufferable thorn in my side sometimes...” You add this, relishing in the tingling warmth that is coming from Gamzee’s gesture. “But you’re the best moirail I could have ever hoped for.”

You hear his laugh as you feel everything become light for a moment. “Thanks Karkat,” he says. “I love you.” You know he means it platonically. How else could he mean it?

“Love you too, Gamzee.” you reply, voice hardly above a whisper, as you smile in Gamzee’s arms. That lightness almost delicate for a moment, but then it grows heavier and--

Your name is Gamzee Makara.

And your moirail has just passed away.

What will you do?

\---

You’ve always associated killing with comfort. At least you had since you were comforted after your first major kill. After taking a couple lives, you always would feel that pulsation of adrenaline and fire in your gut, forcing the need to vomit (which usually happened). But you always craved a sort of aftercare. You always sought someone to approach you after a few rounds of murder and mayhem to stroke your cheek and bring you down. Just a little nod to remind you that your haze of bloodlust was gone, and it was time to go back to being you. Sometimes Kurloz would see you and he’d hold on to you until it all subsided. But it just wasn’t the same.  
You missed the comfort of moiraillegiance. You missed being able to find Karkat when it became especially exhausting. You missed those younger days when you actually cried over killing someone. You’d since grown out of that phase. You don’t even remember what it’s like to cry. Growing up is hard and no one understands, you know? 

There were a few other low-highblooded trolls you associated with. One cocky little shit named Hidras usually was pretty good about letting you vent at the very least. He was a few sweeps your junior, and he knew better than to test you when you were in a bad mood. He’d speak to you, his s’s and z’s turning into hissing noises to accompany the snake symbol on his attire.

“Yer alwayss sso tensse.” he would say to you. “Ya ‘ave t’learn ‘ow to just let go when yer doin’ the deed.” Hidras couldn’t pronounce his h’s, and therefore his own name. He was far more laid back than you ever were. You always thought it was because he actually used sopor recreationally, and there was no rule among his caste that he couldn’t. You gave him a shove. He was far from your moirail, but he was a friend. That counted for something, right?

On occasion you would venture into the nursery. It wasn’t an actual nursery exactly, but it’s where the tiny family of grubs you and Kurloz had found were residing. Due to the illegality of culling jade bloods, their job instead was to care for young grubs who needed to survive but lacked a lusus.

It wasn’t the grubs that calmed you down, it was one of the hired help that you would go to.  
You’d known her for most of your life. She was naturally maternal--a rare trait among trolls in general, but such a trait among her caste--and she knew how to care for others while being strict but supportive.

Her name was Kanaya Maryam.

And despite past altercations with her, she had become close with you since Karkat’s passing. It had affected both of you, and you’d found solace in helping one another. It was one of the few reasons she had for applying to work with the young highbloods. She’d always leave the nursery covered in welts and scrapes, but she never seemed to mind it. She never seemed to mind your presence either. Maybe because you’d grown up since your childhood spats.

This day she was sitting on the floor, her legs crossed one over the other, though hidden in an emerald skirt with gold buttons on the side. Two of your kin were curled up, sleeping in her lap while four others played with a few toys necessary for grub growth. And upon her shoulder was another one, interested in the book she was reading. You always found it amusing how even highbloods played with toys. Even orphan highbloods.

When you came in, she looked up from her book, smiling warmly. It wasn’t an excited one, but more a pleasant one.

“I see you have taken interest in the well being of your relations.” she said, closing the book. The tiny grub on her shoulder squeaked angrily in protest. It might not have been able to read, but it sure enjoyed looking at the words as if it could. Kanaya pat the tiny creature on the head and opened the book again and set it on the floor. “You do your best to not tear the pages.” she instructed as she lifted the grub from her shoulder and set it with the book. It took her a moment, but she had scooped the two from her lap into her arms and stood.

“Hey, they’re my color and my lineage.” you said, scratching at the back of your head, suddenly finding that your other arm was in possession of a meaty looking grub, hair completely covering its face. It had horns mimicking the shape of yours, but stout and rounded. In its sleep, the grub began to chew on your shirt, but you paid no mind.

“How are you feeling?” Kanaya asked you, showing genuine concern. It had been a few sweeps since Karkat had passed, and she liked to know if he was doing well. You lightly scratch the head of the grub in your arms, listening to it as it made grumbling-squeals at your touch. Apparently it liked that.

“Better than I’ve been.” You say with a faint smirk. “Kurloz’s been helpin’ a brother keep his cool.” Kanaya’s gaze has turned towards the stomach of the little grub in her arms. She’s gone ahead and given its underbelly a little stroke, making it curl up tighter.

“I was referring to Alntak.” she said. “That boy you had to kill.” You hadn’t realized that things like that spread at this rate.

“Oh, man...” you groaned, voice soft but the disdain clearly present. You looked up at Kanaya, taking note of her expression. Nosy as ever. “Listen, sis. You think we could be all talkin’ about that later? Like, one on one? And not all bein’ surrounded by...hatchlings?” She laughed. It wasn’t a forced one either. “Y’know. You and me.”

The laugh persisted and she reached forward scooping the grub from your arms. “I’d be glad to.” she said, cradling both grubs in her arm. You thanked her and started to turn, ready to leave the nursery. “Oh, and Gamzee?” she called, causing your head to turn. “If I did not know better, it almost sounded as if you were asking me on a date.”

You laughed. It was the same genuine sort of laugh she had.

“Heh, no way.” you chuckled.

But then again...maybe you were.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOMEN THERE'S LIKE NOTHING SHIPPY IN THIS CHAPTER.

The day you saw your descendent in uniform was the day you legitimately contemplated killing your ancestor. That boy did not belong here. He did not belong in uniform. He did not belong among the subjugglator elite. And yet, here he was, bearing your sign, hiding the crimson of his blood by wearing a sign with your color as a blatant lie. Fury overcame you. You remember that bubbling heat. The seering blind rage. The way you stormed through the corridors and burst into your ancestor’s chamber, guns blazing.

“WHY HIM?” you roared, slamming the heavy, wooden door behind you as you threatened him with an all too bloodied pike from a recent raid. “HE IS BENEATH OUR CASTE AND YOU HAVE ACCEPTED HIM INTO OUR RANKS!” You weren’t fighting your volume. You weren’t trying to keep yourself subdued. You were furious. If Alntak was not allowed to join your ranks as a brown blood, why was your own descendent with the same mutation as your moirail accepted? You wanted to know. You wanted that boy out of your ranks--you wanted him to live.

Your ancestor, appearing to have not aged a day since your youth, stood and crossed the room towards you. A muscular hand wrapped around the wood of the pike, clenching his fist around it so it splintered, making it ineffective in future battles.He smiled, calm and almost serene as he stared you down like a ferocious, wild pounce beast hypnotizing prey.

“He is of our lineage, boy.” he spoke. “The boy was unfortunately inflicted with the gene that caused your lime-blood moirail to have a pigment mutation--” You recalled having a conversation with Karkat once about how he was positive his blood should have been lime, but since they were a dying breed, his blood mutated somewhere in his history. “But that boy is solidly highblood in nature. Have you monitored his combat skills?”

You had to admit he was correct about this. You’d seen how Aegipa fought. He was bulkier than you were at his age, and what he lacked in the agility you had been gifted with, he made up for in sheer natural strength. He was brutal. He talked like a highblood, fought like a highblood--

If it looks like a highblood, acts like a highblood, it must be a highblood.

“Though his pigment is certainly opposite ours, I am not opposed to testing him among the others.” Your ancestor wretched the now splintered pike from your hands and set it on a table in the room. “He has received my approval. And if you permit his presence among us to be acceptable, why, I might even allow you to intervene and save him if his life is at stake.”

You didn’t know if he was joking.

You’d made yourself a semi-frequent figure in your descendent’s life. Every few perigees, you’d go to his hive and see how he was doing. At first the kid had no idea who you were, but he’d grown wise to your presence at around two and a half sweeps when he finally asked who you were. He stood by the door to his hive, the large armored clawbeast slumbering behind him, and he peered out the door.  
He was tiny, but that was no surprise given his age, but you suspected he’d never get very tall, since Karkat had been so short. His tiny hands gripped the doorframe, his grub-claws tucked beneath his shirt as they had started to mould to his body as he matured. He watched you, suspicious of the adult troll sneaking around his hive. He was too young to fully make sense as to why the both of you had the same horns and the same sign. For all he knew, that’s what all other trolls looked like. He was sheltered, so of course he would not understand much.

“Dad says grown up trolls don’t live here.” the boy said as you sat on the front lawn of his hive, admiring the two moons as they slid across the sky. You turned your attention to the boy and smiled at him, catching quickly that he was wary of your presence. “But you’ve been here before. So go away.”

It wasn’t a request or a question, it was a simple demand from a tiny little boy who didn’t like your visits. You had to lower yourself from your position among the clouds in order to see eye to eye with him. “Can I ask you a question, first?” you asked, making sure to smile, making sure to not seem threatening. The child was hesitant but after a moment of being stared down by your violet-adult-eyes, he nodded. “You have a good life with your lusus?”

The boy nodded his head, still piercing him with a strife-modus known as “glarekind. “He doesn’t go out so it’s just me and him usually.”

“I got another one for ya,” you said to him, noticing that the boy was getting annoyed. “You have any friends? Not like, grown up friends, yeah? But one’s your age.”

His head shook as his tiny fingers gripped the door frame tighter. “No, just me and dad.”

Even though the boy had a bitterness to his speech you couldn’t help but notice the inkling of sadness as he spoke.

“Would you like to make some?”

There’d been a number of orphaned grubs of your caste that you and Kurloz had discovered. Unspoken law among your caste was to always retrieve grubs of your color and have them raised within the walls of your people’s dwelling. To the best of their ability there were surrogate lusii and appropriate environments for grubs, they were even expected to build their own residences within the dwelling as well.

When Aegipa was around three sweeps, you decided you would take him for a visit to meet the other grubs who’d been hatched around the same time as he was. Until that point you made a promise to yourself to visit your descendent every few days, an act of good faith to show the boy that you could be trusted. After a solid perigee of visits he’d grown comfortable with you. He even allowed you to see him smile.

You liked when he smiled.

In order to bring Aegipa into your dwelling you had to jump through all these hoops that you never knew existed. Apparently there were laws about any trolls beneath a jade blooded caste being allowed in, unless they had a few specific signs or explicit permission. There was no mentioning whatsoever of what to do about a troll with a mutated blood pigment. So the best thing you could apply for was a visitors pass for an Underage Lowblood (Beneath Brown) with Medical Complications. That’s what the woman at the desk told you when you mentioned a blood disorder, and you didn’t argue it in the slightest.

By this time, Aegipa had grown to understand that even though you were a highblood adult, you weren’t going to eat him. It took some coaxing from the armored clawbeast to convince him, but thankfully the creature remembered how you had delivered Aegipa to him, and assured the boy that this gangly adult troll wouldn’t cause him harm.

Aegipa was tiny compared to all the other highblood youths you passed as you showed the boy around, never once did he leave your side. His watchful eyes scanned everything he could, trying to make sense of your world. He wouldn’t be able to figure out if this was the world of all adults, or you, or highbloods or what, but it was a world he didn’t think he was ready for. At three sweeps, no one really could ready themselves for this kind of world anyways. Some could, and most were of your caste or higher, but that was simply because they were raised in this world, knowing that they would have to adapt in order to survive these harsh conditions. 

The grubs that you and Kurloz had found around the time of Aegipa’s hatching lived in their own quarters separated from all the grown trolls. They were mostly cared for by jade-blooded trolls, hired by your caste to see to it that the grubs grew up in the appropriate environment for their genes. It never made much sense to you, especially given that you knew the nature of jade-blooded trolls. You’d been involved in a semi-red-semi-pale--well, semi-everything relationship with a lovely jade blood you’d known since youth, Kanaya Maryam, for about a sweep now. It was on again off again, but it more often than not leaned towards moiraillegiance. You made sure your ancestor was made aware that you would not be harming her whatsoever and that he was no longer allowed to meddle in your quadrants. 

The living quarters for the orphaned grubs was surprisingly quaint. It was a communal hive like the rest of your living quarters were, but they each had their own respite block and were free to come and go as they pleased. You’d heard that some of the more rebellious wigglers would often try and assert themselves over the jade bloods that oversaw their lives, but you gathered that if they were anything like Kanaya, they could manage the overbearing attempt at being bossed around by children. You’d once heard Kanaya tell one of the wigglers that she helped rear their hides, and she would gladly give them a hard smack in the rear if they continued to treat her with disrespect. Jade bloods were a clever caste, and even the highbloods had to respect them.

So when you arrived at the door that led to the miniature communal hive, the guard at the front looked at you suspiciously. He’d known about your comings and goings with Kanaya, but he seemed surprised at your guest. The little wiggler latched at your side was a new addition.

“Is he yours?” the guard asked as his gaze shifted from Aegipa to you. His eyes were narrowed in a thin line making it hard to even seen his pupils in the light.

“What do you think?” you grumbled as Aegipa’s tiny, spindly fingers grasped the fabric of your trousers, seeming to try and pass the adult guard a similar dissatisfied look as you had. The guard stepped to the side, eyes rolling and grunting to himself, as he allowed you passage. Aegipa stumbled as you began to walk again, and once the guard was back in position you saw your opportunity to talk to Aegipa one on one.

You wretched your pants away from the bow and turned, lowering yourself down towards his level. Despite being a stubborn and somewhat snobbish little boy, you could see the wide-eyed panic all over his face. You supposed it was something he inherited from Karkat, that whole process of always being alert. Always being afraid. As you lowered yourself, Aegipa turned his head away, trying to avert his eyes from yours. But you kept cool. Relaxed. He’d look at you once he realized that you needed to see that he saw you. So you smiled, and you kept it plastered to your cheeks until Aegipa finally relented.

“That’s more like it, kid.” you said as he looked at you, that smile brightening a little more. You saw the tiny flicker of a smile of Aegipa’s as he showed a little happiness at pleasing you. “Listen to me, little man.” you said, opting to speak to him more casually. “You’re gonna be meetin’ some wicked wild kids, you know.”

“I know,” he said, fingers tugging and twisting as he bunched up his sleeves. He was nervous, but you weren’t all that surprised. But like a trooper, he wasn’t going to show that he was scared.

“Remember, you need anythin’, you scream to the motherfuckin’ Messiahs and I’ll get your little ass outta there.”

“Kurloz told you not to say words like that around me.”

That was true. The last few times you had gone to visit Aegipa, Kurloz had tagged along. Not as someone who shared their lineage, not as your matesprit, but as someone who just wanted to meet the little kid. And he made it very clear upon meeting Aegipa that you were not allowed to use foul language around him. Oops.

 

The bonus to having Aegipa come and go from the communal hive of the young highbloods was the amount of time you got to spend in private with Kanaya. It always amused you, this relationship you had with her. Growing up, the two of you had a mutual dislike for one another. Nothing quadrant related mind you, but it was still a rather heated dislike. But you realized as adulthood grasped you both, that it was just the both of you being kids. Jade blooded trolls, as you had come to realize had a lifespan of about five hundred sweeps -- much longer than you had ever suspected. You had thought they were younger than that, dying at around two hundred or earlier. But as it would turn out, jade blooded trolls had a lifespan almost as long as most highbloods.

So while Aegipa started to mingle with the other highblood youths, you were able to have some one-on-one time with Kanaya as she tended to some of her duties in another part of the communal hive. The both of you were around the same age, although she appeared much more mature. Not so much in age, but in wisdom. You figured it must be a jade blood thing, since they’re so tied into rearing younger trolls. When her job was done, however, she took a seat in one of the large, comfortable chairs located in the room you and she were in, and you quickly took a seat on the floor in front of her. A light, endearing chuckle fluttered through the air, from Kanaya as she attempted to run her fingers through the mess of hair upon your head.

“You’ve let your hair go,” she said. “Alntak and Karkat both brushed it for you, didn’t they?” she asked as she seemed to shuffle around on her seat for a moment. “You really ought to avoid neglecting your hair like this.” She scolded as you felt a slight tugging. “If you don’t find reason to protest, would you mind if I brushed it out for you?”

You glanced over your shoulder to look at her, noticing the rather astonished, but maternal expression softening her features. “You have at it all you want, sister.” you assured her. “Just don’t be yankin’.” It was the first time you and Kanaya had done something so intimately pale together that in a sense it almost seemed foreign to you. When you had spent time in Alntak’s cell with him a few sweeps earlier, the boy had brushed your hair a bit, but never so much that it would insinuate pale romance between the both of you. But the last time anyone had done something so sweet...Well, Karkat was the source of it.

Kanaya was gentle as she combed your hair, gently untangling a few knots as she went. She was comforting to you. You hadn’t been necessarily unstable in a long time, but her presence was calming. Whatever stresses you may have been harboring eased as you sat on the floor in front of her.

“Do you worry about him?” she asked as she finished working out a particularly stubborn knot. You gave a shrug. “Personally, I would be fretting up a storm over him.” she murmured, not so much scolding, but worrying instead. “If they knew--”

“Only way they’ll know is if they bully him. It ain’t like he’s wearin’ an anonymous color like Karkat all had himself flashin’ on his shirt. Kid’s wearin’ my color so they better be assumin’ he’s just like them.” you grumbled. You didn’t worry about Aegipa. He was a stubborn kid and he knew how to handle himself. Besides. These were other kids. What was the worst that could happen?

“Given their nature, I would suspect at least Acaete or Raketu would attempt to force Aegipa’s hand and reveal his color.” Kanaya suggested smoothing out a wisp of hair that just wouldn’t stay put. “Whether that boy is descended from you or not, that does not necessarily exclude him from rough housing. He’s surrounded by a collection of wild, highblooded children who are learning what it means to be highblood.” Kanaya leaned down in just a way to make you turn your head to see her. “Did you tell Aegipa to keep his shade concealed?”

And it dawned on you that you hadn’t. Of all the stupid things you’d done in your life, this was definitely up there on the list of stupidest. You had never instructed Aegipa, not once, on how his blood was different. That he was different. Maybe this was good parenting. Maybe it wasn’t. Hell. You didn’t even know what it meant to be a parent. You just knew that you had to keep this kid, who was the only shred left alive of your childhood moirail’s existence, alive and happy. And knowing your shitty lucky, you probably just got him killed or hurt. Or something. You didn’t know what it meant to be a parent. A guardian. A custodian. A whatever. You didn’t know this was such a thing.

Kanaya would tell you later that the only other troll to ever get the opportunity to raise their young was her great ancestor. The only other troll who ever had the chance to pick up a grub that had miraculously survived the brooding caverns, and then got the chance to care for and raise that child as her own. The only one in history. And now, you were getting the same opportunity. Funny how it would turn out that you as well as Kanaya’s great ancestor both were caring for trolls of the very same lineage.

You managed to check in on Aegipa at just the right time. Maybe. Nothing had seemed to have happened. In fact. It seemed that he was getting along rather well with the other seven children located in their little residence. One of the boys, you recall his name being Varuna, seemed to be incredibly interested by your descendant, as he continuously kept going over to him to try and get him to join him in playing with this little collection of instruments he had pushed into a pile. Cute. It seemed to you that someone found pale at first sight. Chances are, Aegipa didn’t even notice the other kid, but that was all fine and good. 

But he seemed happy.

And though you hated the thought of it, you had to take him away now. You would bring him back in a few days if he wanted to. 

You made a point of telling him all about Karkat on the trip back to his hive.


End file.
